


Three Days in Bree

by AnaelAlten



Category: J.R.R.Tolkien, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: And really mean it, Aragorn is a horse, Bofur braids things, Bofur is a sociopath with a heart of gold, Bofur is cute and funny and sexy and doesn't know it, Dedicated to the Fangirl Sisterhood, Dwarf tattoos, F/M, Hedgehogs, How to make love to a dwarf, One more thing..., Palantir, Rites of Passage, Thorin is self-involved and having a mid-life crisis, Thorin likes shiny things, Thorin rocks his harp, and the het-curious as always!, anything else?, dandelion wine, pigs that fly, pottery making during the Third Age of Middle-earth, safe bathtub sex, sausages that fly, the folks over at I Want to Boff Bofur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaelAlten/pseuds/AnaelAlten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angelica, cousin to Aragorn of the Dunedain, leads a solitary and secretive life deep in the Emyn Uial where she tends to the Entwives there and protects one of the few surviving Palantiri, the Stone of Annuminas.  Her recurring visions and nightmares soon send her to Bree in search of Gandalf's aid but she stumbles upon a traveling company of dwarves instead.  Her life is about to change forever, as will the lives of those she encounters at the Inn of the Prancing Pony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Days in Bree

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story from a desire to create an interesting and authentic-feeling female character and see what would happen if I inserted her into Tolkien's male-dominated mythology. Unlike Arwen and Galadriel and the other elves, she is mortal and will grow old and wrinkly and die eventually as will all the other characters in this story. She is not sparkly or icy or as lovely as the heavens. She gets dirty, hungry, drinks too much sometimes, and falls in love with little hairy men. In a nutshell, she's alive.
> 
> An alert to the innocent: There are some very sexy girl+boy bits to watch out for, adult, consensual, and just a touch kinky. I mainly included them because they were terribly fun to write but they won't hurt you. Really. I promise.

Note to readers: The timeline and ages of the characters in this story are based on those given in Peter Jackson’s films The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogy, not the original Tolkien. In Peter Jackson’s version of the story, Aragorn would have been approximately twenty-seven years old at the time of the events in The Hobbit. In Tolkien’s original mythology he would have only been ten and still cloistered at Rivendell with Elrond. The following story predates The Hobbit by about 6 months.

 

Three Days in Bree

 

Late September, Lake Evendim, Emyn Uial

The Trees were beginning to drop their apples, the hungry worms feeding on the bounty that lay about the forest floor. She picked a few remaining on the branches, placing them carefully in the burlap sack slung across her body. She brushed the bark with her hand in thanksgiving and the tree shivered in response. A few thin branches strayed about her head and she gently braided them back into a larger plait that hung near to the ground.

She always walked barefoot in the woods when the seasons allowed. She liked to feel the earth beneath her feet and the tree roots made an easy path for her, sometimes reaching out to caress her ankle in greeting or play with her long brown hair. The time was coming for boots, however. Just this morning she felt the first cool winds of autumn, a crisping. She smiled and hummed to herself. She loved autumn, too, and would tend to her Trees before the first frost came. Their bark corselets must be snugged, their coats mended, their braids tidied and tucked for their long sleep through the approaching winter. The Entwives had lived here for millennia and she had attended them and secretly protected them as had her mother and grandmother and the many generations before since her people had resettled here after their exile and escape from the great waves that had destroyed their home. Now there were few of her people left, the Faithful Ones, scattered across the North, living a simple and hard life, but a meaningful one, too. But now she knew a change was coming for she had seen it. And she dreaded it. And she could do absolutely nothing about it.

Squirrels scampered playfully across her path as she drew near her cottage. Plucking the last of the dandelions to press for wine from the baroque tangle of her garden she approached the heavy front door, masterfully carved in bas-relief with images of anthropomorphized and mostly extinct animals engaged in curious rituals now long forgotten. Biting her lip, a bad habit of hers when she was feeling uncertain, she pushed open the door and entered, leaving the door ajar to let in a bit of breeze and late afternoon light coming in from the west.

The house itself was essentially a stone annex built onto the side of an enormous ancient oak tree that towered above it, hollowed but still living. Over the centuries the tree had protectively wound its strong branches down and buckled its roots up around the house creating a kind of cozy cradled cave. Inside, a winding staircase rose from the north side of the main room spiraling upwards through the hollow heart of the ancient tree. Ascending the staircase one could reach three additional levels: her workshop, a library, and her bedchamber. The staircase continued up through the center of each floor until it reached the very top, a platform open to the sky and a view of several miles in any direction. On this top platform an elaborate dovecote had been built years ago, currently occupied by a large extended family of homing pigeons. It was to this platform she now ascended after shaking a few brown leaves from her hair and depositing her harvest in a pile on a table by the window below.

Reaching the platform she cooed softly and a large silvery pigeon poked out his head from one of the holes, gazing at her inquiringly. She cooed again and he strutted out, hopped to her shoulder, and brushed her ear. From her pocket she brought out a tiny scrap of paper with several runes written on it. She had been carrying it around for days but could put this off no longer; she needed to speak with Gandalf and knew he would understand her brief message and come to her. With a bit of string she fastened it around the bird’s leg and with a kiss to his forehead set him aloft, heading south. “Mara mesta!” she called after him, “Na lu e-govaned vin…” Sighing with resignation she turned and went back down to her apples and dandelions.

Deep into the night she had another nightmare, or rather a nightmare lately transformed into a dream, the same dream she had had almost every night for months. The nightmare itself was familiar enough: her entire family slaughtered by a band of orcs when she was but a child of eleven. Her mother had sent her out into the Trees to safety, but she watched from the protective embrace of Fimbrethil the Entwife, watched as her father, her elder brothers, and finally her mother were murdered by them. She watched as the orcs made sport with their victims’ bodies. And still she watched as the Trees dragged the orcs screaming and biting and cursing into the earth. But this was where the nightmare changed into a strange dream, a wonderful and impossible dream of men, were they men?, rising from that same earth in full battle armor wielding swords and axes and rife with the smell of victory, of blood-lust, of honor, of the passion to live… This dream was different than the others, however. This time she saw a face.

She awoke with a start and sat up, sweat beading on her temples in the chill of the night air, her chest heaving under her linen nightgown. Calming herself she rose unsteadily and, taking deep breaths, walked to the staircase in the center of her chamber and slowly descended to her studio. In the corner sat an old battered trunk. She lifted the lid and pulled out a small wooden casket tucked away underneath a pile of drawings, buggy acorns, dried flowers, and broken bits of junk she’d saved over the years. The casket was innocent looking enough, but there was a strange blue glow emanating from a crack in the lid. Chewing her bottom lip she sat on a short little bench next to her worktable and stared at it as if daring it to move. She got up and paced, glancing at it out of the corner of her eye, still chewing her lip, walking round and round it. She left to make herself a cup of tea and when she came back it was still there, still glowing away. She went to get a shawl and still it sat, determined and immobile. She had promised herself she would never look at it again. “Damn it all!” she said aloud and opened the lid.

Inside was a large crystal orb glowing and smoking, a living rock nestled on a cushion of embroidered velvet. She tested it with a poke and rings of light rippled away from her touch like a pebble dropped in a pool of still water. She carefully laid her hand on it and felt a tingling warmth, welcoming her to hold it. She picked it up and, transfixed, gazed into the Palantir. What she saw terrified her- smoke and flames and armored monsters and a devilish creature with enormous wings… and she saw that face again. She would never forget that face. And then she collapsed onto the floor in a dazed heap.

When she awoke it was mid-morning. The Palantir was somehow tucked away back in its casket in the trunk but there was evidence of another kind of activity from the night before: hundreds of frenzied sketches of faces and places and marvels she had never seen in her waking life, and dozens of little clay figures of creatures and peoples she had never met, figures of small men rising from the earth, from the rock, from caves in the earth, born to the light. She only half-remembered making these but she did know she was utterly exhausted and very hungry. When she looked through her drawings she suddenly felt a tremendous sense of relief; she had finally captured the face that had haunted her. His face.

Many years ago after her parents had died Gandalf the Wizard had come and warned her about the Palantir. Gandalf had watched the stone gradually destroy her father. He had become obsessed with it, hoping for a future that might someday be or longing for a past that no longer existed, never truly living in the moment and oftentimes even neglecting his family and their needs. Always searching for something else he never saw the orcs coming. And in the end she was left alone, alone with the Entwives and the weresquirrels and that damned Palantir. Beyond her nearest kin Gandalf was one of the very few in Middle-earth who knew that her family still had one of the seeing-stones in their keeping, the Stone of Annuminas, presumed lost centuries before along with Arvedui the Last King of Arnor in the shipwreck at Forochel. In truth, Arvedui had given it to the Snowmen of Lossoth along with the Ring of Barahir for safekeeping and as a token of good faith and gratitude for their aid, to be ransomed later if possible. It was eventually retrieved by his descendants, her ancestors, from the Chieftan of the Lossoth but its survival was a closely guarded secret. It was the only heirloom of her people that was not in the keeping or under the control of the Elves. And she intended to keep it that way.

It was Gandalf who convinced her to continue keeping the secret of the Palantir and never to use it. “A time will come when it will be wanted again,” he said to her, “ but until then you must tell no one about it and leave it be. It is far better to live in the world that you inhabit this day. This very moment is your life and will simply lead to the next. The best you need do is take care of the little things today. If you do that, tomorrow the big things will take care of themselves.” Had she made a mistake looking into the Palantir? She considered this and thought not. “Sometimes,” she told herself, “you have to take care of the big things.” And where was Gandalf anyway?

______________________

Days passed, her dreams continuing to evolve and haunt her waking hours, and still no Gandalf. Her pacing grew fretful and she was having difficulty managing what Gandalf called “the little things”. Fall was setting in, her lower lip had been chewed to the size of a small plum, and she could wait around for Gandalf no longer. So she made the decision to leave at first light heading southeast to Bree and track him down herself. She knew of an inn there that was one of Gandalf’s favorite haunts and thought she might be able to gather news of him there. If she were truly lucky she might even run into him. Her male kinfolk frequented the inn on their never-ending travels as well; perhaps one of her cousins would know something.

That night she made one more decision. She went to her trunk and pulled out the Palantir snugged in its casket, hastily grabbed a small spade, and walked deep into the woods. Under an ash tree she dug a small but deep hole in the ground and was about to toss the Palantir, casket and all, into the hole, when she suddenly hesitated- her moment of doubt quickly turning into a deep sense of misgiving for what she was about to do. The Palantir itself, as if knowing her intent, began to glow red and pulsate more violently than ever, as if a beating heart aware of its own imminent extinction. “Another thing of beauty lost to the world out of fear,” she said to herself. “This cannot be. This thing is my past and my legacy, my inheritance, my burden, my future.” And with fresh resolve she gently closed the lid of the box and refilled the hole she had dug with earth.

It was well past midnight when she returned to her cottage. She pulled out her old rucksack and carefully placed the Palantir in the bottom wrapped in its embroidered velvet cloth. Around it she tucked some fresh underthings, a clean chemise, a stack of her drawings and supplies, and a few toiletries. She filled a flask with last year’s wine and a second one with fresh water. Her saddlebags were packed with food: nuts and dried fruit, a round of cheese, some smoked fish, and a hearty loaf of nutbread she had baked that morning. Then she laid out her traveling clothes. She always felt safer and more comfortable dressing in men’s clothing when she traveled alone. She could handle a weapon as well as anyone and her horse Aragorn could outrun even the most persistent shadow, but she was already on a quest that tempted fate and she preferred to keep a low profile. Anonymity was a tool she always used to her advantage.

She would wear canvas breeches over her knitted leggings, a belted knee-length woolen tunic over her soft muslin camisole and chemise, and close-fitting boots that reached just above her knees. Over this would go her brother’s old long sheepskin riding coat which was spread over a chair, stained almost black in places from many wanderings. Into a little suede pouch went a handful of coins, her jewels, and one of the little drawings she had done, full of creases from folding and refolding it countless times over the past several weeks. She was ready to go now. All she had to do was wait until morning and saddle up Aragorn. But she knew sleep would not come so she climbed the stairs to the dovecote to watch the last of the stars before sunrise. The pigeon had returned several days earlier, her note still tied to his leg. He was nestled with his mate inside their little cubby and they cooed softly to each other. They would soon be out and roaming too, she thought to herself.

She watched as the October morning sun rose in the east, spreading its light and warmth over the gold and red leaves of the forest. “It’s time to be going,” she said to herself. “The sooner I do this the sooner it will be done.” She could see Aragorn far below, casually grazing choice bits from the garden, waiting for her. She finished her tea, dressed, stuffed a few oddments into the pockets of her tunic, slung her bow and quiver over her shoulder, and went out into the brisk morning air to greet her adventure head on.

It was a perfect day to ride. Aragorn was full of spirit and reining him in would not do. The open road heading southeast was clear and quiet and he was free to run wild. He sometimes became claustrophobic in the forest and, though she did not keep him corralled, he tended to hover about the house within earshot, keeping a protective eye over her. She felt a pang of guilt for not taking him out more often; this little trip would certainly make up for some of that, she thought. The ride to Bree would take at least three days, possibly four if the weather was bad, and who knew what would happen after that. She would follow the Brandywine River heading southeast and then take a shortcut cross-country, meeting back up with the river as it turned straight south towards the Great East Road. She would have to bivouac off-road for the night but if she were lucky she would be crossing the Brandywine Bridge by tomorrow evening and could spend the night protected by the northern edge of the Old Forest. From there it was another full day’s ride to Bree on the Road. She always felt safer in the woods and the trees there would look after her. She openly scoffed at those who talked of the ‘murderous trees with malevolent hearts’. It was quite the other way around: careless and opportunistic men with axes and fire who did as they willed, treating the forest as merely a business venture or worse, an inconvenience to be gotten out of the way.

__________________________

 

It was on the fourth day and dusk was approaching when she finally arrived at the gatekeeper’s lodge guarding the West-gate of Bree. The door was flung wide open as usual, the gatekeeper snoring loudly, an empty mug at his elbow and an empty ale cask at his feet. Grinning to herself she dismounted. The last time she’d been to Bree, had two years passed already?, this same gatekeeper was propped on the very same stool in the very same spot but with TWO empty casks at his feet instead of one. “Must’ve let in a lout by mistake,” she laughed to herself, “either that or the missus sent him to the doghouse one too many times.” She leaned in and, softly so as not to wake him, gave her name and stated her “business” in Bree. Then she took out a little piece of her drawing charcoal and quickly began working a face onto the back of the man’s balding head. He grunted, waving his hand as if swatting a bothersome fly, and considerately turned his head away from her so she could finish her sketch.

A moment later she had completed her drawing and she stood back to admire her handiwork. The man’s fringe of graying red hair created a perfect beard for her “portrait” and she choked down a laugh. “What a handsome dwarf you make, Master Gatekeeper! May I interest you in another round?” she said aloud and not too softly.

“Indeed you may, lass, and my thanks for the compliment!” Startled, she spun around rather clumsily and landed right in the arms of … a dwarf. The look of utter surprise and undisguised guilt on her face amused him and he grinned.

“How long have you been standing there?” she said, a bit defensively.

“Long enough to appreciate your artistic talents,” he said. “Aye, and quite an accurate likeness of my brother it is too, I must say”.

She gulped, wide-eyed. She was seldom flustered but she had been “caught in the act” as they say and she was a bit out of practice dealing with strangers, especially of the speaking and ambulatory kind.

“I…um… thank you.” She felt like an idiot. He set her back with his strong arms and ducked around her into the gatehouse to get a better look at the gatekeeper’s “face”.

“Aye, it’s Bombur to be sure. We’ll have to give him a look see when he arrives with the lads. That charcoal won’t be washed off all too soon; I should know. Besides, I doubt anyone will be botherin’ to tell him. Now how ‘bout that round, lass?”

Taken aback as she was, she was reminded of Gandalf’s last words to her: “This very moment is your life…” She nodded with a smile, took hold of Aragorn’s reins in one hand and her rucksack in the other, and made for the Prancing Pony with her newfound co-conspirator.

He was a bit shorter than she was, rather broad-shouldered and solid, buoyant yet at the same time rooted, not just to the ground but rather to the bedrock beneath the ground. But that was just his physique. Above those sturdy shoulders and powerful arms was a bright and soulful face that exuded warmth and would have been equally at home among the clouds. And behind that face she detected a depth of combined intelligence, humor, imagination, and sincerity, and even perhaps a keen and delighted interest in poking holes in the carefully constructed facades of others. He seemed a master prankster but only when he knew his victim could take it. She wondered what he would be like in a brawl. Or wearing dwarven mail. She had met a number of dwarves before but none like this fellow. They were largely a rough lot, smelly and loud, good-natured for the most part but had no idea how to behave around women, especially of the human variety. They ignored you completely, were stricken dumb, or gawked. But these were dwarves she met on the road or here in Bree, dwarves that had likely been traveling and camping in the wild for months on end. Dwarves lived in the mountains, not the open lands like Men did. She now reasoned that there must also be poet dwarves and architect dwarves and alchemist dwarves and professor dwarves and dwarves who had never picked up an axe or hammer in their entire lives. Now she knew for a fact that she was an idiot. At least she recognized it before she did or said anything truly regretful.

At this time of day Bree was beginning its transformation from a lively bustling village of shoppers and shopkeepers, hopscotch-playing children and card-playing elders, businessmen and beggars, to a darker and slightly more sinister version of itself. Bree was at the crossroads of two major highways and it supported a number of public houses and inns to serve the constant flow of travelers that came through, hence the need for gates and gatekeepers. Six o’clock was suppertime for most and it was already dark as pitch outside.

“Would you be travelin’ all by yourself, then?” he said. “A bit unusual for a lady to be wanderin’ out and about on her own, especially comin’ here to Bree. Not the gentlest place to visit.”

“I’m here on business, you might say. I’m looking for someone, an old friend who is no stranger to Bree. He’s nearly impossible to track, a bit of a wanderer. The Pony’s the best place around for news. And yourself? You mentioned your brother ( she blushed again thinking about their initial encounter ) and some other expected companions?”

“Oh, aye. We’re with a small party returning from the East. I was with them until early this mornin' but rode on ahead to secure rooms at the inn. They’re a slow-movin’ bunch with all the packs and gear. Don’t want to ride the ponies too hard.” He stopped for a moment to pat his own pony which was absently nibbling the earflap of his hat. He then took an admiring look at her horse. “He’s a fine one, he is. In fact, I’ve never seen finer. What’s his name?”

“I call him Aragorn. I named him after my cousin who thinks it quite cheeky of me. But they’re really so very much alike: overprotective, loyal, cocky, a bit smug.” She tweaked Aragorn’s ear and he gave her an affectionate nuzzle. “Aragorn, my cousin that is, used to go about with my older brothers quite a bit. They were all very close until… well, now he’s one of the Rangers and I don’t see him as often as I used.” She stopped, afraid to share too much of her past with this stranger. Something about him made it much too easy to open up, to just talk, and honestly, she really wanted to. Needed to. But not quite yet. “You mentioned that you and your friends are returning from the East. Are you of the Dwarves from the Blue Mountains then?”

“Aye, that we are. I was born in the Blue Mountains as was my brother. But some of our people originally came from a land further east across the Misty Mountains. Many years ago there was a great Dwarf kingdom there. It’s gone now, really just a bed for a dragon.” He stopped at this and looked at her quizzically, tipping his head, his pony with an earflap in its mouth again. “Lass? What is it? You look as though you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“I have”, she said as she stuffed her hand in her pocket to make sure the drawing was still there. He followed her gaze to the arched doorway of the Prancing Pony and there leaned a tall dark dwarf in traveling clothes smoking a short pipe. He had piercing blue eyes and a wide grin on his face.

“Bofur!” called the tall dwarf to her companion. “I’ve been waiting here over an hour for you. What’s kept you so long? I almost ate without you.”

“Bofur. He is called Bofur,” she thought. “Bofur, Bofur, Bofur.”

“Oy, Thorin! We got a bit sidetracked it seems. There was a bit of a kerfuffle with the gatekeeper.”

“What gatekeeper? He was fast asleep when I passed through.”

“Aye, that he was. Kerfuffles are sometimes one-sided.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow and gave Bofur an amused and skeptical look. “And would this lady have anything to do with the ‘one-sided kerfuffle’?”

Bofur winked at her and said, “Thorin Oakenshield, may I present….Well bless me! I don’t even know your name! “

“Angelica, daughter of Arahael” she said, and looking him straight in the eye held out her hand to Thorin Oakenshield.

_________________________

 

Fifteen minutes later their animals were stabled, brushed, and tucking into large bags of oats. Angelica, Bofur, and Thorin were inside the inn seated at a small table near the hearth. Once the others arrived they could move to a larger table. Angelica was sitting nearest to the fire next to Bofur, Thorin across from them nursing his ale and his pipe. Bofur pulled out his own pipe and leaning around the back of Angelica tapped the bowl on a hearthstone to empty it. His left hand grasped the bench in-between them for support and she looked down at it, surprised at its combined strength and grace. A nice hand, she thought. Kinda dirty, like the rest of him, but nice. Then she realized how filthy she must be herself and instantly snapped out of her reverie. It was dark inside the inn so she hoped no one would notice, plus she wasn’t the only one smelling of horse. She desperately needed a bath and would look into it before bedtime.

Looking up she met Thorin’s gaze. He was staring at her with a strange look on his face. “Angelica, daughter of Arahael, younger son of Arador...” he said softly, half to himself. “Arador of Arnor. Of the Northern Kingdom and the line of… Elendil?” Understanding finally grasped him. “But how can this be? You are of the Dunedain, are you not, lady? In exile as myself, robbed of inheritance, homeland, and title. And how is it that an exiled princess finds herself alone at an inn in Bree of all places in Middle-earth?”

“Not alone,” she replied, looking first at Thorin then at Bofur whose eyes were wide with surprise... and something else. Did she detect worry there, too? More solemnly she said, “And not a princess. But tell me, how does en exiled Dwarf prince like the Great Thorin Oakenshield find himself at an inn in Bree of all places in Middle-earth?”

“That is no answer to my question, lady, but I shall forgive it this once; your business is your own. However, know that the ‘Great Thorin Oakenshield’ as you call him is forever at your service.” And he lightly nodded his head to her. “I knew your father and grandfather and owe them much. The Dunedain gave us aid and showed us great kindness when my people came to Eriador many years ago, driven from our ancestral homeland in the East. And since I can no longer repay my debt to them, you shall have it instead. And gladly.”

This was a grand speech and it tickled her. Little did he know that she might be there to help him. She fingered the drawing in her pocket and toed the rucksack containing the Palantir at her feet. The pieces of her riddle were coming together: her dreams, her inexplicable visions in the seeing-stone, her need to come to Bree. Perhaps it wasn’t to find Gandalf after all but to discover this company of dwarves and to tell them…

Suddenly Thorin grinned and started shaking with silent mirth. He drained his mug and stood, finally letting out a howl of laughter that turned a few heads. “And you have named your horse Aragorn?” he said, regarding her with an expression of wicked delight. “Aragorn! Now that fits! Forgive me, but he’s a bit more of an ass, however, than a horse. Him and his elves. He can have them. My lady, I am now your slave! And I shall begin my servitude by delivering the next round of drinks. Personally.” At this he sauntered off merrily towards the bar, three empty mugs in hand.

As the conversation progressed Bofur had become increasingly quiet though his actions were anything but inarticulate. He had incessantly fidgeted with his pipe, picked grime out of knots in the table with his fingernail, and spasmodically jiggled his knee causing the bench to shake. It was driving her a bit mad. She gently placed her hand on his knee to calm his tick and he stiffened, a sudden paralysis hitting him in the course of spinning a cork on the tabletop. It went flying into the fire with a “pop!”

That did the trick; for a moment. Then he started up with the other knee. He mastered himself and then turned to look down at her with his soulful hazel eyes, darkened as if he were wrestling with some particularly vociferous inner demon. The firelight illumined his face and she noted the faintest hint of disappointment and even resignation. Seated he was a bit taller than she and his chest and shoulders nearly loomed over her. Suddenly his face turned into a gentle smile and he took her hand, giving it a little squeeze, and carefully lifted it from his knee.

“Thorin’s taken quite a shine to you it seems,” he finally said. “Nothin’ cheers him up better than a swift kick to an Elf. I haven’t heard him laugh like that in ages. The ale here doesn’t hurt either.” He winked at her. Suddenly something caught his attention at the door of the inn and his face brightened noticeably. She turned to follow his gaze and saw a fright of a dwarf paused in the entryway. He was even larger than Thorin, tattooed from head to fingertip, and covered with fur except for the top of his very bald head. He was followed by a group of four additional dwarves, all looking rather road-weary, ravenous, and in desperate need of a pint and a pipe. “The lads have arrived. Come along, then! I’ll introduce you.” He stood and put out his hand to help her up.

Thorin had spotted the company first and was already at the door clasping the large tattooed dwarf by the shoulders with great affection. “Cousin! We gave up on you hours ago. We’ve worked our way through two barrels each, at least; didn’t think to save you any.”

“Aye, I can see that. A bit cheerful this evening, are we cousin?” said the tattooed dwarf. As Angelica and Bofur approached he leaned on the absurdly large war hammer that seemed to be moonlighting as a walking stick and looked her up and down with a glint in his eye. “Bofur, my lad! And who might this wee midge be?” She was almost 6 inches taller than he but she certainly felt like a wee midge.

Thorin stepped in between them and said, “This ‘wee midge’ as you call her would be Angelica, daughter of Arahael of the Dunedain. Treat her with respect. She is a lady and you are a lout, Dwalin, so try to pretend at least that you are a civilized Dwarf.” At this Dwalin bowed to her.

“I beg your pardon, my lady. Dwalin the Gentledwarf at your service. I had no idea Thorin Oakenshield counted among his acquaintances the fairer kindred of the Rangers,” glancing sidelong at Thorin as he said this.

Ignoring the comment Thorin introduced her to the other arrivals. Nori, another distant cousin to Thorin; Fili and Kili, Thorin’s nephews; and lastly, a very round, red-bearded, and tonsured dwarf that was soon discovered to be Bofur’s brother Bombur. The two were already deep in conversation, Bofur apparently attempting to answer Bombur’s eager inquiries about the quality of the Prancing Pony’s ale and the quantity of said inn’s food. She happened to be standing behind Bombur casually eavesdropping on their discussion of sausages when she got a good look at the gleaming smooth top of Bombur’s head. She was suddenly struck with the memory of another balding pate she had met earlier in the day and she bit her lip hard to stifle a laugh. Bofur caught sight of her expression over the top of Bombur’s head and raised his eyebrows quizzically. She nodded her head toward Bombur’s and held up the stubble of drawing charcoal she had just fished from her pocket, brandishing it like a weapon towards Bombur’s head, ready to strike. His eyes twinkling with renewed good humor at their private joke he reached around Bombur, grabbed her by the waist, and spun her towards himself. Before she knew it she found herself once again in Bofur’s muscular arms pressed to his side.

“Oh, no you don’t, lassie! There’ll be plenty of time for that later, once we get some cider into these lads. Dwalin’s got quite a nice canvas himself. I’ll even line them up for you, personally!”

He was so close she could smell the ale on his breath, the rich sweet Longbottom leaf, his sweat mingling with the leather of his jacket. Her heart was thumping wildly like a runaway horse and suddenly she had a singular primitive thought that crowded out all reason and sense. She longed to simply crash through his chest and wallow around inside him. She stood there frozen, the concept of moving away from him the furthest thing from her mind. Misunderstanding her intention he tipped his head to look at her and then with knitted brows put his hands gently on her shoulders and pulled himself back from her a half-step. Their eyes met and with a look of wonder and astonishment he said in a whisper, “I’m… I… well, bless me…”

Dwalin’s approach broke the spell. He clapped one hand on Bofur’s shoulder and the other on Bombur’s, who was still standing there and had witnessed the little scene between his brother and the “lass with the charcoal” with absolute disinterest. He was too busy worrying about his supper and was relieved to discover that a table had been prepared for the lot of them, complete with steak and kidney pie, potatoes, and plenty of ale. “And the lady will join us, of course, if she’ll deign to have us. Thorin is occupied with some business at the moment and will join us shortly, but has said he will come to fetch you himself if need be. He has also made us swear on Durin’s beard to behave ourselves in the presence of a lady so you needn’t worry about flying sausages.”

“I will accept Thorin Oakenshield’s kind offer, Master Dwalin,” she replied. “Supper in the company of seven gentledwarves is highly preferable to supper alone. I’m rather disappointed about the edict against flying sausages, however. I’ve been led to believe that this is a dwarven specialty. Tell me: do they come from pigs that fly?”

Dwalin was silent for a moment, not knowing whether to be insulted by this question or not. Then he let out a hearty laugh. “Aye, lass, they do! And tonight you shall witness this marvel if I have to suffer the wrath of Durin myself! Come, while there is still anything left. Fili and Kili can each put away nearly as much as Bombur.” At this remark Bombur was off, homing in on their supper table. The other three followed close behind and settled onto long, low wooden benches lined up on either side of the heavy table.

Four large steaming pies were brought to the board along with a massive roasted bird, a specialty of the house known as “The Prancing Gooducken”. It consisted of a chicken stuffed inside a duck stuffed inside a goose. Traditionally this was all stuffed inside a giant swan but there were no swans to be had in Bree. There were also plates piled with herbed potatoes and carrots, crocks of salted butter, rounds of local cheeses, freshly baked loaves of crusty bread, and for dessert, an apple tart. But alas, there were no sausages. NO SAUSAGES!!!

Angelica found herself cozily squeezed in between Bofur and Dwalin, her rucksack cradled between her feet. Across from her sat the brothers Fili and Kili, Nori, and at the end of the table, Bombur. Excepting the unfortunate lack of sausages, the dwarves were in high spirits, eating heartily, laughing, recounting stories of their adventures on the road. Bofur was enjoying himself too, and though perhaps a bit more reserved than the others (was he trying to impress her? she hoped that was it), he seemed to have shaken off his funk from earlier in the evening.

She was sipping a heavy fortified red wine, picking absently at her carrots and the crust from a slab of pie that someone had dumped onto her plate. She had utterly lost her appetite for food, completely engulfed in the warmth radiating from Bofur and the thrill she got from being pressed up against him. Every move he made, every laugh, every word that came out of his mouth sent a wave coursing through her that made her quite unable to eat. All she could think about was the sensation of being pulled unexpectedly into Bofur’s arms and the look of surprise on his face when their eyes met. This dwarf had turned her inside-out, had awakened a vulnerability in her that she’d only ever felt once before, and she longed to be held by him again. She felt light-headed and happy and terrified and a bit sick. And the wine wasn’t helping her head any. She had to get out of there before she was completely swept away, get some fresh air and calm her pounding heart. And she still had to deal with the Palantir and have a talk with Thorin. Maybe that could wait until morning when she was fresh and well-rested. She had to get a grip on herself, collect her wits.

“I said, are you feeling alright lass?” It was Bofur, who had been watching her, an expression of concern on his face. “You haven’t eaten a thing but a scrap of carrot. Is the fare not to your liking? Let me call the maid over and she can bring you something else….”

“No, no, a bit of water will do the trick, thank you. Just feeling a touch warm, that’s all. I think I may step outside for a moment, take a bit of air.”

He looked at her and blinked, a shadow of doubt passing over his face. “I’ll come with you then. I could use some fresh air myself. It has grown a tad stuffy in here.”

“No, I’m fine. Really. Stay here with your friends and finish your supper.” She put a hand on his arm. “Truly, I am fine. I’ll be right back. I promise.”

His moustache twitched and the twinkle in his eye faded. “Very well, then. I’ll… We’ll still be here when you come back. The lads haven’t worked through half the pies yet.” He gave her a small smile and then rose gallantly to help her off the bench. He took her warm hand in his and pulled her up effortlessly. This attracted the attention of Dwalin who was seated on her other side.

“And where would our wee lassie be off to? Not too disappointed about the flying sausages, is she? Stay and have another port, my lady! There’ll be music and dancing later on and one must be well-oiled for that!”

She laughed lightly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Master Dwalin! Just stepping out for a moment. You and your friends have quite overwhelmed me this evening, even without the sausages!”

Dwalin stood, and when the others noticed what was happening they all awkwardly stood as well, forks and knives still in hand, chewing and bowing low to her. She was horrified, hoping to slip away unnoticed but the event had turned into a major production. She had yet to learn much of the ways of Dwarves.

She gave Bofur a last look before pulling herself away from him. He was about to walk her to the door but she put her hand on his arm and held him back. He stopped, a look of confusion, even hurt, on his face. She smiled and turned towards the entrance of the inn. When she reached it she glanced over her shoulder one final time and saw Bofur still standing there motionless, his wide eyes following her. She thought her heart would explode. Then she turned away, shouldered her rucksack, and walked out into the cool October night.

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It was a beautiful autumn evening, the air scented faintly with pine and woodsmoke. She felt like herself again immediately. The street was dark and quiet except for the muffled laughter that occasionally filtered through a brief opening or closing of a door from the several public houses that lined the main thoroughfare of the village. She took a deep breath and stretched. “Get hold of yourself, Ange,” she said to herself. Looking up into the darkness above she saw Valacirca, the Great Bear, in its great never-ending orbit in the sky and then a moment later a star fell in the north. She closed her eyes with a wish and a quiet prayer: “Prestad, O Yavanna Kementari! Tiro nin… Boe enni i tulu lin…” Yavanna would guide her as She always had. After all, wasn’t she a handmaiden of Yavanna Kementari, tending to Her Trees? And wasn’t Aule Mahal, Maker of the Dwarves, Her consort? This revelation made her smile a little. Yes, Yavanna would show her the way, give her the strength and wisdom to get through yet another cold night with her dark memories and her nightmares to keep her company.

Earlier she had nicked an apple from the table for Aragorn and decided now to turn back and make her way through the inn-yard to the stables to check on him. She wanted to make sure he was properly tucked in for the night, and she needed his steadying, uncomplicated loyalty. She opened the stable door and found a lamp nearby that she proceeded to light. The stables were tidy and warm, smelling of hay and clean straw. She walked down the center aisle checking in each stall as she went, finding Aragorn housed near the end, neighing in greeting before she had even spied him. “Hullo boy, hullo...” She scratched behind his ear and he nuzzled her, mussing her hair. She dropped her rucksack on the straw and went in search of a brush. She found one hanging on the wall with the tack and proceeded to give him a slow and thorough brushing, humming contentedly to herself. Aragorn always calmed her, centered her. With him she felt more grounded and connected to herself and her past, reminding her that life, though impermanent, always finds unexpected and unhoped-for ways of persevering. Though she had lost her family and she oftentimes felt quite alone, there were other living things that needed her love and care. And that gave her purpose and the courage to keep going.

She pulled the apple from her bag and was about to offer it to Aragorn when she noticed Bofur’s smaller pony in the stall next to his. She looked at the apple, then pulled out her little knife and cut off a large chunk. “You don’t mind sharing, do you boy?” She gave the larger piece to Aragorn and then slipped around into the pony’s stall. She patted him on the side and offered him the piece she had cut. The pony accepted it gratefully and Angelica stroked his neck as he chewed. He was a little brown thing with a silky black mane, tangled a bit and in need of a combing. She fetched the brush from Aragorn’s stall and gently started working out the knots. As she combed, a broad smile crossed her face and she dropped the brush into the straw. She began her task by dividing the pony’s mane into sections and then started to weave a marvelously complicated braid, incorporating bits of leather lacing into the design. Since her earliest childhood she had spent endless hours plaiting the slim branches of her beloved trees, creating elaborate topiaries and only clipping a branch when it was diseased or dead.

“There you are my friend. A fine and proper mount now for a braided Dwarf-lord!”

“Fine now he certainly is, princess! Though he is a feisty one and all your efforts are fated to last only a day or two. He will have those braids out before he ever reaches the road again. Uncontrollable he is, a maverick. The only one who can tame him is Bofur. And perhaps now you, it seems.”

Thorin Oakenshield approached slowly so as not to startle either of them, laying a gentle hand upon the pony’s back. His eyes gleamed in the lamplight, a smile flickering across his handsome, noble face.

She had not heard him enter the stable but was somehow not surprised to see him there. “Not a princess,” she said a bit defensively, and turned back to reknot a leather thong on the pony’s mane that had already come loose.

“Here, allow me to show you a trick to that.” She handed him the piece of leather and he spat on it, working the moisture into the dry leather. He then took the leather and hair and expertly knotted them together, pulling the leather taut with strong agile fingers. “There. When it dries he’ll never be able to tear it loose. With your braiding and my knots we’ll make a thoroughbred of him yet.”

Then he went silent and still. He turned to look at her and the expression on his face transformed from one of casual amusement to one of solemn consideration as if holding something back, weighing her, uncertain whether or not to proceed. He seemed to have made up his mind and said, “You are indeed a princess just as I am, or once was, a prince. Being robbed of one’s legacy and homeland does not make one less than one is. I know this to be true for I have lived it myself. I have passed many bitter years wandering, struggling against prejudice, searching for a new home for my people, rebuilding a life for them that is worth living. That has been my duty as a prince, whether I am called one or not. And you,” he said, taking both of her hands in his, “have done the same. I know of the Trees that you harbor in the North. I know of the heirloom that you protect in secret for your grandfather spoke of it once to my father many years ago. And I can imagine the solitary life you must lead deep in Emyn Uial by the Lake Evendim, dark memories haunting you, regret gnawing at you…” At this he seemed to grow agitated but checked it with mastery. “This is no life for you, my lady. Nor for me. Our time will come; nay it is coming.”

Still holding her hands he led her to an empty stall where a fresh mound of straw had been laid. “Please sit with me for a moment. I must speak with you privately and the inn is much too noisy and crowded. You are no doubt wondering how it is that I came upon you here. I admit openly that I came looking for you when I discovered you were no longer at table with the company. I guessed rightly that you might come to the stables.” He spread his coat over the straw and motioned for her to sit. She complied and he sat himself near, facing her. He spoke, she listened.

“I have had a dream, the same dream now each night for the past three months at the least. It begins always as a nightmare, a nightmare all too familiar to me as I have lived it in my waking life. The earth melting all around me, caverns smoking, trees aflame, the screams of children and the hopeless…” He passed his hand across his eyes as if to clear away the memory. She was entranced by his words and could see it all for she had seen it all: in her own dreams and in the Palantir. She knew how terrible this must be for him. “But the nightmare doesn’t end here. It passes into a dream, a new dream of things marvelous! Night becomes day as ore becomes pure gold! I see mountains and a vast forest and beyond… I see my home once again, rising into the clouds! And finally, I see a king on a throne cut deep from the living rock, the Arkenstone once again upon his breast. I see all this and I think that it is I upon the throne. But I can make no sense of it! And then, my lady, I see a face… It is your face. When first I set eyes upon you today I recognized you but could not place you. And then I understood. ”

Slowly she reached into her little pouch and drew out the drawing she had made weeks before. Creased and smeared as it was there was still a recognizable image on it. Wordlessly she handed it to him.

He unfolded the paper and looked at the drawing. His eyes grew wide and he was speechless for several moments. He was gazing at a portrait of himself. Then he looked up at her with an expression of astonishment. “But how is this possible? You as well? Can it really be true that our destinies have crossed, my lady?”

She gave him a meaningful look. Without speaking she rose and went to Aragorn’s stall to fetch her rucksack. When she returned Thorin was still seated and deep in thought, his chin resting on one knee, looking at the drawing. She tossed the bag onto the mound of straw and knelt before it, pulling out drawing after drawing, dozens of them, and spreading them out before him. She attempted to lay them out in what she believed to be some sort of narrative but he gently stayed her hand.

“Allow me,” he said with conviction, meeting her eyes. She nodded and leaned back a bit holding up the lamp for him. He studied each drawing with great interest, nodding occasionally, and slowly, one by one, placed them in sequential order. Several times he chuckled to himself, holding up a drawing for her to see, typically a cartoonish sketch of someone he recognized. “Balin,” he said once, smiling, holding up a sketch of a white-haired dwarf with a large hooked nose. Some he laid aside to study later, strange fantastical images that he couldn’t place. Thorin himself was represented in roughly half of the drawings and he seemed troubled by some of these. He had finally reached the bottom of the second stack of drawings when he uncovered a simple sketch of a landscape that nearly took his breath away. “The Lonely Mountain,” he whispered. “Home.” He picked it up and with his forefinger tenderly traced the ragged outline of a distant mountain set just beyond a wooded plain. He looked up at her with a profound look of gratitude, eyes damp, holding the drawing to his heart.

“May I…keep this one?” he said to her.

“You may keep them all,” she replied. “Somehow I believe they are more yours than mine, anyway. I understand little of what this all means. My own dreams have haunted me for months as well, but why I have been dreaming of you and your companions and your mountain I cannot yet comprehend. I do believe that in some remarkable way my fate is tied to yours, Thorin Oakenshield. And I think it has to do with whether or not you choose to go on this quest to reclaim the Mountain. I have one more thing to show you.” She reached into the very bottom of her rucksack, pulled out the Palantir still wrapped in its velvet cloth, and laid it between them.

Thorin’s eyes shone. He had heard described the Palantiri but had never seen one himself. Most were believed destroyed, lost, or taken by the Enemy millennia before. The few remaining had been secreted away and only a handful knew who guarded them. Thorin could scarcely believe she had been casually hauling one around in her filthy rucksack.for the past week.

They both sat and stared at the still-wrapped stone, uncertain whether or not to continue.

“Why are you showing me this, Angelica? What more is there to see?”

She paused for a moment, still a bit unsure of how to proceed. Then she opened her mouth and it all came spilling out. “I am afraid for you Thorin. And I’m afraid for your friends who will follow you to the ends of the earth if you ask it of them. I have looked into the Palantir and I do not see you seated on a throne carved of living rock with the Arkenstone at your breast as you have dreamed. I see you lying in a tomb cut from the bedrock of Erebor, buried deep in the earth, the Arkenstone hanging like a great weight around your neck. If you attempt this I’m afraid you will die, Thorin, and take many others with you. But knowing that will you still choose to sacrifice your own life and the lives of those whom you love, to free the Mountain from the beast, deliver to your people a homeland they barely remember, relinquish your throne to another? What is one’s life worth when one’s death benefits so many? I want you to live, Thorin, whatever being truly alive means to you. Perhaps that does mean freeing the Mountain. But in my dream you and your companions awaken and rise from the earth, not hide in it. The gold is left behind. Gold is not a home. Gold does not live, raise a family, create, sing, love. One cannot eat gold. And the only living thing that uses gold as a bed to dream upon is a dragon. Let the dragon keep it.”

She had had her say.

Thorin sat speechless. He picked up one of the drawings, laid it down, picked up another. This was of a blazing winged ball of fire, hurtling down upon the tiny image of a man wielding a bow. He considered the drawing, set it down, then gazed up at her with a clear eye.

“You speak some truth, Angelica. But do I really have a choice? These visions, these dreams, seem to me more than a possibility. They seem to me a destiny, a doom thrust upon me that I am helplessly barreling toward. And if by my actions and my life I can change the course of the future for the good of generations of my people to come after me, I offer all with a joyful and profoundly grateful heart. It is not the lost gold I seek, nor even the Arkenstone. It is a place in the world that I can call my own, that my people can call their own, without groveling and begging. It is a life of dignity and sovereignty that I seek for myself and my people. That is the very least anyone deserves in this life. Slaying this dragon does mean awakening and rising from the earth as you say, freeing myself, ourselves, from bondage in the darkness. I have already slain many dragons in my time, my own private and invisible dragons, but none less significant than the one called Smaug. I have already been tested by fire and cleansed by it.

“And you too, my lady, who have come this far with your Palantir and your drawings and your dreams, have a destiny to fulfill, your doom lies before you also. How is it otherwise? How can you see all this and be here now, with me, without participating as well? Have you your own dragon to slay?”

She felt the stable becoming increasingly hot and stuffy, not unlike the table at the inn earlier. Her forehead was beaded with sweat and her heart was thumping wildly again. Her eyes were moist and beginning to burn. She brushed a stray lock away from her face, avoiding his searching gaze, his penetrating blue eyes. He reached out, cupping her chin in his hand, raising her face to his. “What dragon must you slay, Angelica? What is its name?”

“Solitude,” she said, her composure finally cracking. She put her hands to her face and broke down utterly, shaking and weeping with shame at her weakness. Thorin shifted towards her on the straw and took her in his arms, rocking her gently, kissing her hair.

Her sobs gradually quieted and she untangled herself from Thorin’s embrace, a small embarrassed smile on her face. Collecting herself she wiped her nose and looked up at him. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “I talk to pigeons and squirrels,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “I sew dresses for trees. I paint portraits of mice. I kiss my horse… ” and with the realization of the utter absurdity of her life she began to laugh. “I collect broken teacups! I swear at crystal balls!” she sputtered deliriously, rolling backwards into the straw pulling Thorin on top of her. “I think I’ve just slain a dragon!” she cried. “Or at least given him a good hit! I was asleep, too, Thorin, hiding in the dark earth with my treasure, waiting for something. That is the meaning of all this! That’s why we’re here! That’s why I’m here!” Her life did have meaning for her, she did have a legacy that was vital, and she did have choices. Her present and her future need not be the onerous monotony she dreaded, the fearful and bitter tedium she had been living for the past thirteen years. She was content in her own company, but she didn’t need to be alone, hiding herself away with her secrets and her guilt, her shame, her fear, her duties as the heiress of…what? She had no palace or kingdom. Just a little patch of garden near a lake with some talking trees and a crystal ball. It was a revelation. She wrapped her long legs around Thorin, gave him a deep joyful kiss, and then threw him off, leaving him in a stunned heap on the straw, drawings scattered about and crumpled underneath. She leapt up and grabbed her rucksack with one singular purpose in mind. A second thought struck her and she bent down and unceremoniously rolled the Palantir back into her sack. She looked over at Thorin who was still sitting there motionless, mouth agape. She crawled over, gave him another kiss for good measure, then took off. “You can keep the drawings! I hope they’ll help!” she called behind her as she ran out of the stable and back into the night.

She flew back to the inn quick as a hare. In less than a minute she had devised a makeshift scheme that couldn’t fail, wouldn’t fail, if she knew anything about the nature of beasts at all. She had reached the arched entrance across the yard and stopped short, taking a couple of deep breaths and collecting herself before going inside. The door was ajar, lively music filtering out and brightening the night. Out of the corner of her eye she caught another shooting star. She squeezed her eyes tight and made a wish, a great and grand wish into which she poured every ounce of her being. Then she stepped inside to greet her doom face to face, with eyes and arms and heart open wide.

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The inn was even more crowded than it had been earlier. The locals having suppered at home were now partaking of their postprandial ritual of gossip and a nightcap at the Pony. The air was heavy with pipe smoke and sweat but she no longer noticed it. One area of the common-room had been cleared of tables, the benches pushed out of the way and lined-up against the walls. People were dancing, some of them quite drunk, to the accompaniment of a lively tune being played by an impromptu band of musicians. She drew nearer and poked her head through the crowd of onlookers who were clapping enthusiastically and cheering on the dancers. What she saw made her gasp with disbelief and delight: a shirtless ( and bootless and quite drunk ) Dwalin was doing an impressive and frenzied hopak dance. Several equally drunk hobbit-maids were spinning and twirling around him tossing handfuls of red and orange leaves that were catching in his bushy beard and chest hair. He looked like a great brown hairy bear angry at having been suddenly awakened from his long winter slumber on a bed of dead leaves by a troop of merry chipmunks.

She noticed Thorin’s nephews Fili and Kili among the first line of onlookers nearest the musicians, each holding a small fiddle, but they were too preoccupied with laughing and hooting to be of any use as musicians. Bombur was seated next to them banging a large kettle with a ladle and Nori was playing a flute. But where was Bofur? He was not among the musicians, nor was he in the ring of onlookers. She made her way through the crowd, standing on tiptoe to look over this person’s head, ducking under that person’s wildly gesticulating arm. She managed to reach a quiet corner intact without getting accidentally elbowed, intentionally groped, or having anything carelessly spilled upon her.

From her new vantage point she had a reasonably clear view of most of the hall’s occupants. The musicians were now playing a jig and Dwalin, having been overcome by exhaustion and some inexplicable “injury”, had been hauled off by the Durin boys, Fili and Kili, to a bench and deposited there. The hobbit-maids were now attending to him, fluttering about with busy little hands, damp bar rags, and more pints of ale. He was grinning shamelessly, letting out a pitiful “Oh, my poor knee!” now and again when their attentions waned. This had the inevitable effect of renewing the hobbits’ attentions, stirring them to nurse him even more sympathetically. Dwalin caught Angelica watching the pathetic little scene and she mouthed the word “lout” at him, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. He winked at her, turning back to his business at hand.

As she continued scanning the room her enthusiasm was quickly evolving into disappointment and doubt. There was no sign of her quarry. Where had he gone? Had he taken to his room already, settled in for the night? Perhaps he had stepped out for a breath of fresh air. Maybe he had gone to the stables to check on his pony as she had done, and they somehow missed each other. If he had gone to the stables would he find Thorin still there, as well as the drawings in her unmistakable hand? And what about his pony’s braided mane? He would know she had been there alone with Thorin, and she had been gone for several hours. What would Thorin tell him? What would he think… She gulped and a mild panic began to overtake her. She felt sick again.

Just as she was about to give in to despair of ever finding him again, of ever being held by those strong gentle arms, and gazed at with those soulful hazel eyes, she noticed a lone figure hunkered down in the shadow near the hearth smoking a pipe and gazing dejectedly into the fire. Suddenly everything fell away from her into nonexistence: the room, the music, the voices; and there was nothing but he and she and the gaping distance between them. She sped like an arrow straight across that distance to the very heart of her target never once taking her eyes off him. When she reached him she grabbed his hat with one hand, his left shoulder with the other, and straddling his lap lowered herself onto him, staring straight into his wide startled eyes. Then she kissed him with a pent-up passion and desire that had been brewing in her for years.

“Lass, what’re you doin’?” he said in a whisper, his eyes wide. She had finally let go of his lips and his hands were cradling her head, holding her away slightly so he could speak. “Angelica…” he shook his head. “Angelica, you’re too far above me and I can’t reach you there. You taunt me like this. You’re high and lovely and noble and… and should belong to someone who is deserving of you, like…”

“Like who? Like one of Aragorn’s Rangers? Or an Elf-prince? Or perhaps the Great Thorin Oakenshield? I belong to no one but myself.”

He swallowed and gently stroked her hair with his hands. “But you’re a princess, a lady of the Dunedain and you could have anyone you choose.” He gulped. “I’m nobody. When I’m not making useless gadgets I’m bustin’ up rocks for a living. I’ve got no birthright, no kingdom, barely a name. I’m no prince. I’m not… even a hero.”

“You will be, Bofur,” she said with a knowing smile. “You will be.”

He looked at her searchingly, not comprehending her meaning.

“And as you say, I am a lady, a princess you call me, and if I can have anyone I choose then I choose you, Bofur, Toymaker Mattock-Wielder Pony-Rider of the Blue Mountains. You have my heart already if you’ll take it.”

He was speechless. Then he beamed.

She couldn’t take it a moment longer. She would have him and hold him, she would bring him down. To free both of her hands she plopped his hat on her own head and grabbed his braids, forcing her mouth deeply onto his. He started with surprise and then slid his hands down from her shoulders to her waist, then further down to her hips gripping them from below and pulling her tightly to him, her booted knees now on the bench, one on either side of him. She squeezed him between her thighs and could feel him wakening just beneath her, even through all their layers of clothing she could feel him and it was making her hot and dizzy and reckless. She clutched at him, wanting, needing him now… Damn these breeches! If only she had been wearing a dress…

Suddenly she felt him freeze like a stone. She opened one eye and saw him looking at her, eyes half open and twinkling, a low kind of chuckle working its way up from his belly to his face but lodged somewhere in-between because she had his lower lip between her teeth.

“I tink peepo aw wathing uth”, he said.

“Whu?” She let go of his lip.

“I think people are watching us” he repeated.

Nonchalantly she peeked over her shoulder to see half a dozen gawking faces suddenly turn away with feigned disinterest. “Let them” she said, turning back to him with a wicked grin. “Let’s really give them a show.”

“Nay, let’s get out of here. What I plan to do to you tonight would put them down for weeks. Hold on.” He clasped his hands together under her buttocks and stood up, her legs clamped tightly around his waist. He shifted her weight a bit higher to free his legs and marched off with her wrapped snugly around him, her cheek on his shoulder, face only partially obscured by his hat. He offered an occasional “Excuse me”, “Pardon me”, as he navigated the hall heading towards the entryway. She caught sight of Dwalin who they passed, still enthroned on his bench, each arm draped around a little hobbit beauty passed-out on either side of him. “Well, I’ll be…” She heard him say. “Lout”, she responded. And Bofur the Dwarf, carrying his prize the Lady Angelica of the Dunedain, left his audience and the Hall of the Prancing Pony behind.

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Bofur crossed the threshold of the entrance to the southern wing of the inn and passed down a long corridor to a narrow staircase at the back. The staircase led to the second floor and a series of private rooms reserved for the single male guests of the inn. He carried her to the last room on the left with a window overlooking the darkened street below.

“You do realize that neither of us can ever again show our face at the Prancing Pony,” she said to him, burrowing her face into the dark hair at his neck, nibbling towards his ear.

“Aye, right ya are, my wee lass. But somehow I don’t mind much. And I rather think that most’ve ‘em will have forgotten all about it come mornin’, think they were dreaming maybe. Except for Dwalin, of course. He’ll have somethin’ to say to be sure. But he’s really a good sort at heart. Ah, we’ve arrived. Can you just tuck your paw in my pocket there and fetch me my key? My hands are a bit full at the moment.” He gave her bottom a squeeze.

She dug the key out of his tunic and he supported her as she slipped it into the lock.

“A perfect fit,” he said slyly.

He carried her inside, booting the door closed with his toe. He stood there a moment stock-still, still carrying her. Now what to do? He had a woman, a human woman, in his room, they were alone, and she was hanging on him chewing his earlobe. She stopped nibbling and looked at him. Their eyes locked. He blinked, suddenly a bit unsure of himself and mildly shocked by his own audacity. “Angelica, what I said before…I’m not…I mean, I’ve never really…”

“Neither have I. Not really,” she replied quietly, and his face brightened, about to speak again. She shushed him with a dip of her mouth upon his, tracing a finger down the line of his moustache, across his trembling lip, back up his cheek and into his hair. She kissed him again, a deep long passionate kiss that took his breath away and he stumbled backwards onto the bed nearly dropping her to the floor. She clung to him, straddled once again across his lap, booted knees on either side of his muscular thighs. His hands were now free and he began to explore her, cautiously at first, gaining confidence as she eagerly responded to his touch, never stopping him or pulling away.

She shrugged off her sheepskin coat and dropped it to the floor, his hands expertly pulling open the laces of her man’s tunic. He suddenly stopped and then slowly pulled it aside, catching his breath when he saw her warm, pale skin glowing underneath, covered only by her thin embroidered linen chemise. “Oh…my…” he whispered, withdrawing his hand and holding it to his heart. He seemed transfixed, afraid to touch her. She took his hand in hers and laid it gently upon her breast. He gazed at her wonderingly and then, slowly, began to trace down her neck, her collarbone, the little valley between her breasts, ever searching, gliding his lightly calloused fingers over the fabric of her chemise, catching them on the delicate threads. She brought his forefinger and then his thumb to her lips and kissed them, taking each one into her mouth slowly, moistening them with her tongue. She removed them and he slid his fingers down her neck, running them underneath her low neckline, unbuttoning a button, then another, then another, working his agile fingers inside her chemise, moving in slow tentative circles spiraling ever inward towards her now very sensitive and fully swollen nipples, pausing over each for a long moment before continuing his exploration ever downward. “Ah, my lass is smooth…”

His hands had reached the beltline of her breeches and he grasped her bare waist and raised her to her knees, still straddling him, effortlessly loosening the cord that tied her belt together, his eyes never leaving hers. “And what might be tucked away inside these breeches?” he said, slowly sliding his hand over her waistband. Encountering her knitted leggings he halted and a look of befuddlement crossed his face. She raised her eyebrows at him and with both hands he peeled back the tops of her breeches to investigate. “Well, thank goodness! You are a lady, to be sure!” he said with a grin and resumed his task undaunted. He licked his fingers to rewet them and inched them over the top of the snug fabric and then slowly worked his way downward to her patch of curly soft hair. When he felt it a look of sheer delight lit up his wondrous hazel eyes and he laughed, grabbing her in his hand and rocking himself backwards onto the bed dragging her on top of him, his hat flying from her head and landing in a corner, forgotten. The sudden force of this action drove his finger inside of her and she gasped with surprise collapsing onto him helplessly, and he, discovering the effect this had on her, began to move his agile fingers in and out of her, in and out, circling, slowly at first and then faster, playing with her, teasing her into a kind of madness. It was altogether too much for her and she pulled herself up from him, tearing at his clothes with frenzied urgency, his jacket, his tunic, his shirt, all thrown aside. He kicked off his boots and slipped off his trousers, the only thing remaining on him his own long knitted underwear, buttoned from neck to inseam with little mother-of-pearl buttons. She began hastily unfastening the buttons at the neckline, having some difficulty because her hands were shaking uncontrollably. He brushed her hand away and taking hold of the fabric himself with both hands fiercely ripped open the long underwear from top to bottom, buttons flying in all directions.

He was standing before her, heaving and hot, pacing, a gleam of unchecked passion and hunger in his eyes. She crawled to the edge of the bed, reaching out to him, and he took a step toward her. She rose on her knees to meet him, wrapping her arms up around his broad shoulders and pulled him down on top of her, locking her ankles together around his back and dragging him to her core. He was thick and heavy and hard, and she was wet and open, both of them drenched in their intermingling sweat. She arched her back straining for him, feeling the tip of his manhood hovering over her like a wasp, searching for the sweetest place to strike. He found his target, gaining purchase in her damp little nook and he tested the fit carefully, pressing the tip in and out, stretching her open bit by bit to take him, she crushed under his weight, every ounce of her being swept downward into that maddening friction. She could take it no longer and thrust herself up to meet him. With a bestial growl he plunged deeply into her and she caught her breath, holding him there and clutching him tight unwilling and unable to let him go. He drove into her again and again and then with surprising ease he flung himself over with her now on top of him, still hard and strong inside her, still driving her, her own weight now forcing him ever deeper, her champion slaying dragons left and right…

They were utterly spent. She was draped over him, he still inside her but now soft and warm, nestled between her legs. She gave him a little squeeze and he laughed, holding her close and stroking her hair. “My wee lass. Mine.”

“And are you mine, Bofur? Will you return to me after you have freed the Lonely Mountain?” She hated this. There were so many things that needed to be said, and soon. She felt happier than she’d ever remembered being but the fear was beginning to raise its oily head at her again.

“What? Free the Lonely Mountain? What’re you talkin’ about? I’m not goin’ anywhere. Everything I want is right here.” He closed his eyes and smiled contentedly, one arm under his head, the other around Angelica. She pulled herself up to her elbows and then worked up to a sitting position, still straddling him, her hands resting on his broad muscular chest. He opened one eye to look at her and grinned. “Ready to go again?” he said with lusty amusement and a wiggle of his eyebrows, rocking her back and forth.

She played with his chest, tracing with her finger a couple of long raised scars and the remnants of a large faded indigo tattoo barely visible under his dark chest hair. It was an image of an intricate knot consisting of seven dragons devouring their own tails. Inside the knot was a seven-pointed star.

“Dwarf lads in the Blue Mountains receive those when they turn 50, a comin’ of age tradition I suppose. Ironically, soon after you get your tattoo your chest hair really starts to grow and you can’t really see the tattoo anymore.” He chuckled. “People don’t do it so much these days. I think my generation may have been one of the last to take it seriously. Even then, me and the lads had ours done one night after a bit of carousing without the ceremonial folderol.”

“What ceremonial folderol?”

“Oh, just the ritual bloodletting and so on. They have these giant leeches to clean up the mess then they bake them up in a pie. Everyone gets a slice.”

Her mouth fell open in horror and disgust. He grinned. And then she punched him. “You are so full of it!”

“What? You mock the Sacred Leeches?”

“Yes! I mock your ‘Sacred Leeches’! I’d eat a slice of your pie, though. A nice, big, juicy slice.”

“I’ll bet you would! Unless Bombur got to it first. You’d pro’bly have to fight him for it.”

She leaned down, elbows on his chest, head in her hands looking at him. He smiled and reached up with his free hand to brush a curl back from her face.

“Now what?” he chuckled.

“Nothing. Just looking at you.”

He reached for her with his hands under her arms and pulled her up to his face. He kissed her softly then rolled her over onto the bed, stretching both arms over her head and nuzzling the tufts under her arms. “These little patches enchant me, your little secrets. I didn’t know you would have hair here…or below…” he said, and worked his hand down, caressing her belly, to the triangle of hair between her legs.

“Dwarf women have almost as much hair as the men do and they can be very vain about it. They would braid this,” giving her a little tug, “though theirs grows a tad longer and sometimes they work beads and stones into their weaving. I’ve even heard of Dwarf women tying little bells on the ends so that they jingle when they walk.”

“You lie! That is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard!” she giggled, remembering her antics with his pony’s mane earlier that evening. He would be charmed when he went to the stables to fetch him. He gave her a feigned look of hurt and offense.

“Cross my heart! I’m serious this time, though I can’t claim to ever havin’ seen it myself. Maybe we should try it on you. Perhaps not bells… but some gems would be lovely: rubies, diamonds, pearls for my Numenorean Lady of the Sea…and no one would ever know but me and you.” He tenderly kissed the spot between her breasts and nibbled his way slowly down her chest, pausing awhile at her waist, and then continued down, down, until he reached the tender flesh where her thigh met her belly, tickling her with his goatee and moustache until she could hold herself back no longer and she burst out laughing, instinctively wriggling to get away from him. He held her down, stroking her and soothing her until she quieted and then he buried his face in her, inhaling her, tasting her with little flicks of his tongue. She moaned softly, the fire inside her starting to build again, and she grasped at him, catching his dark hair long loosed of their braids and bringing his face up to meet hers. “No, I was wrong before. You are the Sea,” he said and effortlessly slipped into her again, languorously rocking her until they were both swept away.

___________________________

 

The next morning she awoke alone. She vaguely remembered hearing a knock on the door quite early, then Bofur kissing her goodbye and rolling over and falling back asleep. Something about a meeting, he’d said. She sat up drowsily, stretched, rubbed her eyes; something was stuck to her cheek. She peeled it off and saw that it was a note from Bofur. Apparently Thorin had requested a meeting with his companions for 8 o’clock that morning downstairs. Bofur was hoping that she would meet up with him later, perhaps take the animals out for a “trot” and have a “wee picnic”. She smiled, and wrapping herself in a quilted blanket, padded to the window overlooking the street below. Sunlight was streaming in from the east and just catching the tops of the buildings across the street. The village was still rather quiet, recovering from the night before. A few early risers were up, heading towards their workshops, shopkeepers unlocking their doors and opening windows, little mules led by farmers hauling loads of the last fresh vegetables of the season to sell in the market and the various inns and public houses along the street.

She yawned and smacked her dry lips, running her tongue across her teeth. “Blech.” The events of the night before had left her parched, sticky, and terribly hungry- she hadn’t eaten a thing except a few boiled carrots and a bite of cheese since yesterday afternoon, with the additional two mugs of ale and a glass of port on an empty stomach. She walked over to the drysink and found a large ceramic ewer filled with fresh water, a basin, two porcelain cups, and several neatly folded fresh towels. Also sitting there on a little plate was a freshly made scone, a small pitcher of cream, and a handful of dried berries. “Bofur,” she smiled. She poured the cream over the berries to soften for a bit and then poured herself a cup of water. Heavens, she was thirsty! She next approached the dresser in the corner and looked at herself in the large oval mirror attached to the top. Her hair was a fright, knotted and tangled, matted at the back; but she glowed, her drowsy eyes shone, her lips a bit swollen and red, her cheeks warm and pink- she had never felt so beautiful. She set down her cup with the aim of attempting to smooth out the tangled mess when her eye caught something lying on the dressing table wrapped in an old worn handkerchief. She picked it up curiously and unwrapped it. Inside was a hair comb, beautifully carved from tortoiseshell and studded with small blue pearls along its handle. Freshly engraved on its side were runes that read, “For Angelica, Your Bofur.” One of the pearls was larger than the others and when she touched it a tiny silver bird popped out the top of the handle, spun around, whistled at her with a little “whreep!” and then popped back inside. Her jaw dropped in disbelief. She pressed the pearl again and giggled with delight. A present from Bofur. “He’s magical,” she smiled to herself. “Truly magical. And he’s mine. For today anyway…”

She bathed and dressed and began straightening Bofur’s room for the benefit of the chambermaid; or so she told herself. If truth be known, however, the temptation to poke around in his belongings while he was away was too powerful to resist. His leather pack was sitting open near the bedpost and she “accidentally” knocked it over with her foot, some of its contents spilling out onto the floor. Oh, dear! I really should tidy that up for him… She squatted next to the pack and began refolding the garments that were sticking out, repacking them carefully, feeling around with inquisitive and tentative fingers as she did so. Her fingers grazed something leathery and smooth, a book maybe?, and she pulled it out to have a closer look. The cover was stained and well-handled, bound with an ornate metal band. She brushed the cover with her hand and then opened it. It was filled with drawings: page after page of complex diagrams describing mysterious and bizarre contraptions, each image captioned with numbers and writing in a neat but indecipherable hand. She gazed at them in wonder. Bofur’s journal… Then she quickly and guiltily shut the volume and replaced it deep within his pack. “Enough,” she told herself; “This won’t be the first time your nose has gotten you into trouble.”

Loosely closing the pack she pushed it to a corner near to the dresser, piling up the remainder of Bofur’s luggage around it. She gave the room one final inspection before heading for the door, her plan to sneak out of the men’s wing without getting caught on her way downstairs. She was hoping for a spot of tea and wanted to do a bit of shopping before meeting up with Bofur later for their ride and “wee picnic”. She was already turning the doorknob when she realized her rucksack was missing. Where was it? She looked under the bed ( pocketing several of Bofur’s buttons that she found there. She’d make something nifty from them later. Bofur’d never miss them, would he? ), behind the dresser ( finding two, ooh! three! more buttons there ), in every corner. A slow panic was beginning to rise and engulf her as she realized she must have left it downstairs in the common room, utterly forgotten when she had mauled Bofur at the hearth. The memory of the previous night distracted her for a moment as she fingered the buttons and Bofur’s magic birdie comb in her pocket. Then she snapped back to her present crisis, grabbed her coat, and made a beeline for the door.

When she opened it she ran smack into Dwalin who was standing there, fist raised as if preparing to knock. The impact barely disturbed him, solid as he was, and she merely bounced off him in surprise. He was holding her rucksack in one hand and had a sour look on his face. “This would be yours, my lady?” holding the bag out to her. “Come. You’ll be wanted downstairs.” She took the bag from him and he moved aside so she could pass into the hall. Then he followed her close behind as she descended the staircase at the end of the corridor.

When they reached the ground floor he escorted her to one of the private parlors of the inn. She followed him to the table where the dwarves were congregated, dirty breakfast plates pushed to the center of the table out of the way. They were having a loud animated discussion until their approach brought the conversation to a dead standstill. Six pairs of eyes were suddenly on her, one pair of particularly warm hazel ones looking quickly away. She was stricken.

They all stood to greet her, including Bofur, though he would still not make eye contact with her. Thorin was at the head of the table and nodded to her. Removing himself from his seat he gently took her by the arm and guided her to a chair next to himself. The dwarves regained their seats and Thorin spoke.

“You have all met Angelica, daughter of Arahael son of Aradan, Lady of the Dunedain of the North. She has come to us, unwittingly it seems, from Emyn Uial to reawaken a long-held and until now unhoped-for dream of our people: to restore the line of Durin and its people to their rightful place in the world. Our people have foundered for three generations, scratching out a life for themselves in the lands of the West, a hard life, undeserved. The Blue Mountains near to the Great Sea have finally provided us a haven of peace and stability. The Dwarves of Ered Luin have welcomed us with open arms ( he nodded to Bofur and Bombur ) and Cirdan’s people have been gracious and tolerant. But a life of near serfdom and unending indebtedness to others, of working iron and shell in exchange for a dark cave and a bit of turtle meat, is NOT truly a life. You are all aware of the purpose of our travels east these past weeks, but perhaps not entirely so. I have made inquiries into the safety of the passes over the Misty Mountains in current times and found them to be reasonably secure. Here in Bree I have discovered yet more and last evening the Lady Angelica has provided the final pieces to my query, ending my doubts once and for all in achieving my heart’s desire, the same desire shared by my father and grandfather. What was lost to us in the East CAN be regained, our ancestral homeland, the hard worked and hard won treasures of our Fathers, a life of dignity and joy, heads held high, facing the world with open and expansive eyes, no longer held low in shame and disappointment and fear with little hope of betterment for our children. Last night The Lady Angelica has shared with me the means of attaining this end, of success in freeing the Lonely Mountain from the dragon Smaug and reclaiming the great halls of Erebor.”

All six dwarves stared at him dumbfounded as he spoke this final sentence, even Bofur, who had been quietly poking at a bit of biscuit, pipe in hand unsmoked. He shifted his gaze to Angelica who met it with a wilted look, desperate for a moment alone with him to explain her reticence and defend her actions.

Thorin then withdrew a large envelope from his jacket and shook from it all the drawings Angelica had shown him the night before, spreading them on the table before the dwarves. They took up her sketches with curiosity and passed them around, initiating an enthusiasm for Thorin’s speech. The dwarves were particularly interested in the images that depicted themselves and she noticed Bofur gingerly pick up a small drawing half hidden under another, his eyes warming as he considered it, and smiling to himself secreted it away in a pocket.

Almost instantly the group began to pummel her with questions, most of which she couldn’t or wouldn’t answer. What she did do was lift the rucksack from her lap and place it before her on the table. She stood and opened the bag, then tipped it over and out rolled the Palantir, slowly caroming off the breakfast dishes littered around the table until it came to a complete stop square in front of Bofur. His eyebrows shot up and he tapped his pipe. “Well, bless me!” he exclaimed. Thorin simply nodded to her in approval.

Finally she spoke. “This is the Palantir of Annuminas. It has been in the keeping of my family for many generations since returning to Middle-earth after the cataclysm that rent the isle of Numenor from the living world. I have maintained this heirloom of my people in secrecy and have only now brought it into the light and so far from its home out of dire necessity. I show it to you now in good faith and trust in your discretion, in defense of myself and my actions, and to allow you to judge for yourselves the truth of my assertions to Thorin Oakenshield.

“It is a fact that many of my people have been blessed, some say vexed, with the gift of second-sight. This has been especially true of the women of my line and I am certainly no exception, although my training in controlling this gift was interrupted prematurely for reasons that fall outside this present discussion. The Palantir, however, is not reliant on those with second-sight to unlock its secrets. My visions and dreams of late have been a great and unwelcome burden to me and I truly desire to be free of them. I gratefully pass them on to those to whom they truly belong.” Then she thought to herself, “Well, I’ve become quite as good at making grand speeches as the Great Thorin Oakenshield!” And just like that, it was done. She snugged up her rucksack, tossed on her coat, and removed herself from the table. The Palantir smoked and swirled mysteriously, the dwarves entranced poked at it, whispering, marveling, suddenly having lost interest in her entirely. All except Bofur, who was grinning from ear to ear. He tipped his chair back against the wall, one leg propped on his knee, puffing on his freshly lit pipe. He winked at her. She blushed.

“Let me know when you’re done with that, gentlemen. I should probably take it back to where it belongs.” Then she turned and lightly skipped out of the inn to welcome the bright sunny day.

______________________

 

She strolled down the street, now a bustle with people; mostly men and hobbits but there were a few odd others, including a pair of dwarves looking quite lost. She approached them and said, “They’re at the Inn of the Prancing Pony, down a block. They’ve just finished breakfast but I’m certain they’ll have left some for you.” They both bowed nodding their thanks to her and started heading off in the direction she pointed them. Suddenly they stopped, simultaneously turning to look at her with an expression that made her laugh. “The Prancing Pony. One block. On the right.”

“That would be Balin and Gloin” she said to herself, enjoying her private little joke a bit too much. The picnic luncheon with Bofur was first on her mind and she took her time in the market, selecting the very best cheeses, a lovely potato and mushroom pie that looked particularly good and would be fine eaten cold, several late autumn apples, and a honey tart for dessert. She would get wine or cider at the inn for one could not get better elsewhere. Everything went into a little basket she had purchased from a hobbit lady selling them on the corner. She had given a tiny ruby for it and the dear lady beamed at her with delight. She was feeling happy and expansive and FREE for the first time in her memory and it made her want to sing to the sky. She hummed happily to herself instead.

Working her way back to the inn she passed a little dress shop which stopped her in her tracks. In the window she spotted a frock that made her a bit covetous as she caught her own rather shabby and travel-worn reflection in the glass. She bit her bottom lip and, jingling her little pouch of silver and gems, held up her head, took a deep breath, and went inside. She emerged ten minutes later with a wrapped bundle tucked neatly under her arm, frock now vanished from the window.

When she returned to the inn the party had broken up and the staff was cleaning up the hall preparing for the crowd that would soon be there for their midday meal. She spoke to one of the barmaids to ask about a bath and was directed to the innkeeper’s wife who reserved a bathing room for her. She decided to stop off at her room first, one she hadn’t visited since the previous day, to drop off her purchases and gather a few items. The ladies’ lodgings and those reserved for couples were separated from the mens’ in the northern wing of the inn to provide at least an outward appearance of propriety. “As if that would stop a determined lass!” she giggled to herself. She collected her toiletries and some fresh underthings and headed towards the bathhouse which was located in a separate building near the back of the inn.

The bathhouse was humid and toasty. She introduced herself to an elderly crinkly-faced woman who nodded to her and escorted her through a long hallway to a private room towards the end. Each room was equipped with a fireplace, an additional little stove to heat water more easily, and a large tub which sat in the center, created from half of an enormous wine barrel. The elderly lady handed her a fresh towel and a bar of soap, opened the door a crack for her, and she entered.

The room was dark except for a crackling fire in the fireplace. Steam was rising from the wine-barrel tub and a window had been propped to allow in a bit of fresh air, a relief from the heat. It was all as she had expected until she realized that there was a bit of splashing going on in the tub as well as the low almost cheerful humming… of a man’s voice. A man was in her tub! Someone had usurped her bath!!!!

She flung her things down on a bench and angrily stomped around to the foot of her tub to face the usurper straight on, propriety be damned.

“Hullo, my lovely lass! I thought you’d never come. I’ve been waiting here for, oh, fifteen minutes at least.” He had one foot dangling over the side of the tub, he was puffing on his pipe, and his hat was on his head.

“Bofur, you... you… rascal!!! You took my bath! I want my bath back! Give me my bath!”

“I’ll give you your bath, you filthy little mouse! Get in here and be quick about it!”

She started throwing off her clothes quick as an imp in front of the fireplace, only her silhouette visible to Bofur’s eyes, but she could see his face lit fully by the glow of the fire. He was grinning with eagerness and pleasure, his expression one of smug satisfaction and self-assuredness, a bit too cocky maybe, so she decided to give him a little show. He had stolen her bath and he would pay. She was mostly undressed except for her knee-length chemise and her woolen leggings. So she stopped, sat down on a little stool next to the fire, crossed her legs, crossed her arms, and stared at him. He sat up, hat drooping, moustache drooping, pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“What?” he said. “What?”

“You stole my bath.”

“Aye, but I fully intend to share.”

“You stole my bath. Get out. Now.”

“Buh…”

“OUT!”

He got to his knees and crept to the edge of the tub, hands and chin resting on the edge, a pitiful hangdog look on his face. He opened his mouth to say “Buh…” again and his pipe fell out, dropping unceremoniously to the floor. He was adorable. And she was still a little pissed. She glared at him, tapping her foot.

With a deflated and over-exaggerated sigh of defeat he rose himself onto his elbows and flung one leg over the edge of the tub so that he was straddling the side, half in and half out, bedraggled, as if clinging to an unbridled runaway pony. His legs were too short to actually step out of the tub so he just rolled himself off into a wet dripping heap onto the floor.

Angelica simply looked at him, trying hard not to laugh and spoil her well-earned victory. He picked up his pipe, stuck it in his mouth unlit, and spread his hands in surrender. He remained sitting on the floor. “M’lady’s tub awaits. May I get anything else for M’lady?”

“No, thank you.” She stood up and slowly rolled down her leggings, tossing them onto his still-hatted head. Then she turned towards the fire with her back to him, a sly grin on her face, and began slowly unlacing her chemise.

“Er, whatcha doin’ there?” Bofur said innocently. “You needin’ any help there and you just let me know. Bofur’ll be right here, always at M’lady’s service.”

Laces loosened she gracefully shrugged her shoulders and the chemise floated to the floor. She heard a choked gasp and then a cough suddenly erupt behind her coming from the direction of the tub. She stepped out of the chemise and turned to look at Bofur who lay sprawled in a puddle on the floor, ogling her and having a bit of a fit.

She sashayed casually over to the tub, put one hand on his head for support, and playfully lifted her right leg making sure to give him a nice view of her puss for good measure as she stepped into the tub and eased herself down into the warm water. A mere five seconds later, a nose, two beady eyes, and a hat appeared over the edge of the tub. “You alright in there? Just makin' sure you’re alright. No harm in that. Sir Bofur’ll be right here guardin’ M’lady’s tub, makin’ sure nobody’ll try to steal M’lady’s bath. Nay, never again will anybody be tryin’ to steal M’lady’s bath. No sirree…” he went on and on, mumbling recriminations to himself, utterly pathetic. She’d won.

She grabbed his hat and flung it to the far side of the room. He popped up, a hopeful gleam in his eye. “Will you just shut up already and get in here?” In an instant he was over the edge and she pounced on him, shoving him up against his end of the enormous tub, a miniature tidal wave of water splashing onto the floor. “Nobody comes in between a smelly, sticky, grimy lady and her bath, dear Sir Bofur. Not even her champion.”

“Gotcha.”

She kissed him and then again more deeply, tongues and arms intertwining, hands kneading soft flesh, water swirling about them. She straddled him and he cupped her gently between her legs and slowly slipped his finger into her, his ring rubbing against her cusp, raising her out of the water with a powerful arm until her breast was in his mouth, biting first one nipple, then the other, his whiskers rubbing against her soft belly, she grasping his immense shoulders, senseless. Blindly she reached down into the water and he took her hand guiding it to its mark, his aroused and stiffening manhood waiting for her. She grasped him and he froze, awakened by her grip, shuddering. Instinctively she slid her hand up and down his length feeling him continue to grow and harden, pulling him ever tighter and ever closer to her own now very warm and tingling cleft.

Bofur wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, chewing at her neck and breasts, spreading her open and fingering her from behind now, pressing his thumb in and flicking it against her opening. They were so near, and she strained to rub his tip against her. She could just feel his head brush her cusp, a little further and they were touching, then suddenly she was balanced on him: full, commanding, and unyielding.

She withdrew her hand and Bofur crushed her to his chest, breathing heavily into her neck, arms wrapped low around her waist, not allowing them to break contact. She clutched his shoulders feeling his muscles tensing with the effort to control his craving, waiting for her, and with their bodies pressed together they began moving rhythmically as one.

“Bofur…”

“I’m here, lass. I’m here. I’m with you.”

“Bofur… I’m ready for… you… I need…you…I need…”

“Let me in, lass, let me in…” he whispered hoarsely into her ear.

As he held her she slowly ground down her hips and seized his tip, taking him in a fraction at a time at first, then an inch, then another, then another…

“Bofur…I…need…”

The aching suspense suddenly transformed Bofur into a crazed animal. She needed him. He slapped his hands onto her bottom and with a growl forcefully drove himself upward just once, pulling her down towards him at the same moment, penetrating her soundly and locking them together fully. She gasped, biting onto his shoulder to suppress a scream as he shook and clawed at her hips, releasing beams of light that shot back and forth between them, enveloping them both for an eternity.

She arched backwards into the water, floating, flying, Bofur still supporting her hips, treating her to a couple of final thrusts as he softened, sending yet more shuddering ripples through them both. Finally letting go of her hips he gently took hold of her waist and brought her back up to his chest, holding her in his arms, exhaling deeply into her dripping mass of waves.

“My fair lady with the chestnut hair.” He kissed her forehead. “I still can hardly believe you’re real. And that you’re here with me like this, that you want me, lettin' me touch you with these old, calloused hands… you are real, aren’t you? I mean, you’re not going to suddenly vanish like a will-o’-the-wisp are you?”

She took his hand, kissed it, and held it to her heart. “This feels real, doesn’t it?”

He could feel the warmth of her skin, the heart beating just below, her chest rising and falling as she breathed. “Aye, lass. That it does.” He gave her a shy, crooked smile then moved his hand up to the back of her neck, paused a moment to meet her gaze, then drew her in for a tender kiss. She curled up into him, sighing with contentment and happiness.

“In any case,” he said, “I guess I’ll be havin’ a nice big scar on my shoulder where you took a bite outta me. If I ever have another doubt about your mortality that aughtta be proof enough.”

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry…” She turned to look at his shoulder and found a large perfectly round swelling rimmed with deep teeth marks. There was a drop of blood and the area was already starting to color. She rubbed it curiously. “Bofur…It looks like Aule’s Seven Stars! You’re going to have a scar of Durin’s Crown on your shoulder!”

“Really?” He craned his neck to get a view of his new battle wound. “Huh! How ‘bout that. I can’t wait to show the lads. Although that could present a problem; they’ll pro’bly want one, too.”

She giggled and rubbed his woolly chest. “I had no idea it could be like that,” she finally said.

“Aye,” he chuckled, “I had an idea but no opportunity. There are few dwarf lasses and most of ‘em get scooped up by the lads with a bit of gold in their pockets or a flashy title: Lord of this or lord of that. Some of the lads start up with each other, aye, that’s not so uncommon. Me, I might’ve done the same eventually if... well...... Let's say solitude can be a tough stone to break.” He hugged her tight and kissed her on the forehead. “I could do this all day, every day, for the next hundred years with you. The Dunedain live a longer life than other Menfolk, don’t they?”

“Yes,” she responded “and I am but twenty-four, in the lifespan of our people barely come of age. Absurd, really. My cousin Aragorn the chieftan of our people is twenty-six. He’s already seen more and done more than most people three times his age.”

“Aye, I can believe that. I’ve never met him but one hears tales about the Rangers. And Thorin has crossed his path as you already know.”

“I dearly love my cousin you understand but he can just be so… so…”

“Annoyingly heroic? Exasperatingly gallant? Irritatingly noble? Self-righteous? Self-involved? Smug, grim, put-upon, bossy, uppity, tall, hairless, what?”

“NO!” she laughed, elbowing him. “Well yes, maybe some of that, but that’s not what I was going to say. I was about to say ‘interfering’. Since my parents died, and my brothers too, he comes around every few months to check on me, make sure I’m okay, tells me what I should or shouldn’t be doing, arranging introductions to various Ranger cronies like I’m some sort of chattel or loosed thread that he needs to tie up so it doesn’t thoroughly unravel. As if I don't get along perfectly well without him or anyone else the other 95% of the time. I mean, what gives him the right to control me, to pass judgement? In a way I think he sees me as a burden and he wants me secured so he can go about his other business running after orcs or whatever it is they do. He also wants the Palantir safely in Rivendell which I will not allow. He spent most of his childhood there under the protection of Elrond who is like a second father to him. His mother, my auntie, would bring him to visit on occasion. He and my brothers were very close. But living in Rivendell with the Elves all those years has made him a bit different and of course when he was told of his inheritance as Isildur’s heir… well, insufferable to say the least. And he’s got a thing for the Lady Arwen which he thinks is a huge secret. I got it out of him one night when he’d had a little too much to drink. Yes, he thinks he’s quite special and important and knows what’s what. But I think the road will mellow him considerably. He means well and has a good heart. That’s why I named my horse after him.”

“And you? What is your life when Aragorn’s not ‘interfering’?”

“You will see it for yourself. I have a nice little life. I’ve truly come to appreciate that in these past days. I have my duties as an heiress of the house of Elendil myself, but those things keep me grounded, I think. I talk to my trees and birds, I draw, I tend to my little garden near Lake Nenuial where I make wine from my dandelions and pottery that friends sell for me in the markets of the Shire. I have my extended family and a few friends. The Wizard Gandalf has been particularly good to me, reminding me always that my destiny is my own as are my choices, which helps to deflect Aragorn’s haranguing. AND he’s taught me to make fireworks! Can you believe it? Aragorn can never know that. He certainly wouldn’t approve. Oh, and then there are the weresquirrels! During the day they look like regular squirrels but at night they turn into fairies with little silver wings and fly around.”

“Right. You expect me to believe there are squirrels that turn into flyin’ fairies? With silver wings, no less. And you mocked my Sacred Leeches story? Flyin’ fairies. Pfff. Fairies don’t fly.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Not a whit.”

“You’ll just have to come for a visit then and see for yourself. I’ve even named a few of my favorites: William, Henry, and Robert. Bill, Harry, and Bert. ”

“Those are troll names. You’ve named your flyin' fairies after trolls.”

“Indeed.”

“Hmmm… And what about these ‘duties’ you speak of? One of them has to do with the Palantir, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. I am its keeper and I am bound to it. Uh, where is it, by the way?” she said off-handedly, a bit embarrassed by her lackadaisical attitude. She was having way too much fun with Bofur and this lovemaking business to concern herself with ‘duties’. She had already done her duty, hadn’t she?

“Oh, Dwalin, Nori, and the Durin boys were havin’ a shinty match with it back behind the stables and I think it rolled into the sewer.”

“Okay.”

“No, really.”

“Okay, I said!”

“Really?”

“Well, no. Where is it really?”

“Thorin has it. He said he’d give it back to you tonight after supper. I think he wanted to spend some ‘private’ time with it. A bit lonely he is.”

“Really? Okay.”

“Okay.”

So comfy she was wallowing with him here in the tub. She was getting a bit pruney but she didn’t care.

“What did you mean before when you said ‘You will be, Bofur’?”

“What?”

“Before, you know, last night at the inn when I told you I was just a miner, a toymaker, not a prince or a hero or anything like that. You said, ‘You will be, Bofur’. What did you mean?”

She shut her eyes for a minute and thought. Do I tell him? Should he know? What if I lose him forever?

She unwrapped herself from his embrace and turned to face him. “Bofur, you saw my drawings this morning, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “Aye, that I did.”

“Did you look at all of them?” He looked at her uncertainly. “I saw you take one. It was one of yourself, wasn’t it? A drawing of yourself wearing fine Dwarven mail, a war helm, carrying an axe in one hand and a sword in the other, raised in victory.”

He nodded, smiled, a bit embarrassed that he’d been caught. “Aye, seeing that drawing that you made of me, lookin’ like that, well I knew that you must really care for me.”

“My dear Bofur, you don’t understand. I made that drawing of you weeks ago, before I ever met you. I saw your face in my dreams, in the Palantir, going on this quest with Thorin to free the Lonely Mountain. Why did you think Thorin wanted me at your meeting this morning? Weren’t you listening? Thorin intends to take the Lonely Mountain, to reclaim Erebor, and you and all your funny, charming, wonderful, loyal friends will go along with him to do so. You will all go and you will fight a great battle and you will be victorious. But some of you will not survive and this is what I fear most. I saw you, Bofur, wearing that princely mail and wielding a sword, a bloody sword. You will kill for your captain, Bofur, for a land that is not even your own. Are you prepared to do that? You will do legendary deeds, deeds that will be remembered for generations to come, in lays sung by great minstrels, in epic poetry, in paintings hung in great mountain halls. So yes, my dearest Bofur, you will become a prince and a hero. But a living or dead one I do not know. And if you do survive, will you come back to me now that I’ve finally found you? Will I ever see you again? When I look at Thorin Oakenshield and the Durin boys and the others, well, all I see are living ghosts. You are the only one who is not yet a ghost to me and I can’t bear to think of you that way.”

Bofur was having some difficulty taking this all in. He chuckled uncomfortably and gave her a squeeze. “But I’m not goin’ anywhere, Angelica. Hero, pfffttt! A hero in your eyes is all I need to be. Besides, Thorin hasn’t made any decisions yet. That’s a long ways off, lass, and who really knows what the future holds? Meeting you, for instance. Who would’ve guessed that I’d meet you here at the Prancing Pony of all places?”

She squinted at him but held her tongue. The look in her eyes was enough.

“Aye, very well my Dunedain princess with the magical future readin’ ball. If I’m goin’ on a quest to seek my fortune and become some great mail-wearin’ hero we’ve got quite a bit of lost time to make up for that we haven’t even lost yet. The rest of it we can take care of when I get back because I do intend to survive and spend the next hundred years shaggin’ you silly in every way known to Dwarf, Man, Hobbit, or Aule forbid, Elf!”

At this he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to his chest, holding her tightly with one arm so she couldn’t escape, and started tickling her. He started at the tender spot under her arm and while she splashed and squirmed he worked his way down her side and around further to the inside of her leg, all the while chewing and nuzzling the side of her neck. She was laughing and struggling so hard that she could barely breathe, gasping for air, for relief… and then he stopped. Panting, she pulled away from him and there was an enormous grin on his face.

“I think I’m ready to go again,” was all he said. She obliged and pounced.

______________________

 

The afternoon was wearing away, their “bath” occupying most of it until the elderly matron finally knocked on their door to tell them their room was wanted by another patron. When they crawled out of the tub they were wrinkled head to foot. They had been wallowing for nearly two hours and were “quite clean enough” according to the matron. They wandered off in a daze, blinking in the bright day after the darkness and warmth of the bathhouse. They decided that their picnic could wait until tomorrow but they were famished and they really needed to take the animals out for a run. The stables were nearby so they would stop there first and then maybe purchase some hand pies from one of the market vendors.

They arrived at the stables and entered, throwing the large wooden doors open to let in some light and fresh air. She let Bofur go first and followed a short distance behind wanting to catch Bofur’s full reaction when he saw his pony’s new hairstyle. He arrived at Aragorn’s stall and gave him a pat on the rump, then continued on around to his pony Rusty’s stall. She waited anxiously chewing her bottom lip. Nothing. No reaction whatsoever. He was talking to him, shuffling around in the straw, wrestling with his tack. How could he have missed something so obvious? She entered Aragorn’s stall and patted him absently as she peeked through the slats separating the two stalls. Sure enough, Rusty was just as she had left him last night, his braids still knotted tightly, the weaving clean and straight. It was rather dark in the stable but she could still see well enough. Bofur couldn’t have missed it!

“How’s Rusty doing?” she called to him.

“Oh, just fine. Just givin’ him a quick brush before I saddle him up. How’s Aragorn?”

“Oh, fine. He’s um... fine.” She patted him again, taking no notice.

“Well, that’s just fine, then. Fine. Let’s get a move on then, shall we?”

“Fine…sure. Okay, then.”

She walked over to a bench to get a saddle blanket and when she returned to throw it over Aragorn’s back he gave his mane a good shake. “Tinkle tinkle tinkle!” went a host of little silver bells. He shook it again. “Tinkle tinkle tinkle!” She caught her breath in surprise and screwed up her eyebrows, stepping up to get a look at Aragorn’s mane. On closer examination she saw that it had been braided into a dozen long braids at least, each with a little bell tied to the end. In her astonishment and delight she burst out laughing. Bofur’s head suddenly popped around the corner a look of mock concern on his face.

“Everything still fine over there? You needin’ any help with his saddle or anything? ‘Cause if you are, you know, just ask. No problem.”

“Umm, no, I really do think we’re quite fine. Yes, very fine, indeed!” Aragorn shook his mane again, bells flying, and she had to stand back to prevent getting hit in the face.

They finished saddling up and then led the animals out into the yard, Aragorn first and then Rusty. In the sunlight she got a better look at Bofur’s craftsmanship. The braiding was more elaborate than she had expected and the bells were finely crafted Dwarven silver. Where had he gotten them? Did he always carry handfuls of bells around in his pockets?

“Remind me to never fall asleep on my back when I’m with you,” she said lightly.

He winked at her. “Aye, I can agree to that. As long as you fall asleep on top of me.”

They mounted and took off at a trot, heading for the West-gate. Their goal was to run the animals around the outer perimeter of Bree beyond the trench, up through the hills, walk them cool, and bring them in. When they arrived at the gate the gatekeeper greeted them with a “Hi Ho” and opened the larger gate for them to pass. When they went through they each got a good look at the back of his head. Angelica’s drawing was still there, fresh as it had been the day before. Had it really only been a day? She couldn’t believe it. When they’d passed, Bofur couldn’t resist turning around and calling back to the gatekeeper, “There’s a charming lady at the bathhouse who’d love to meet you! I’m sure you’d make a grand pair!” At that they took off running, Rusty eagerly struggling to keep up with Aragorn.

The exercise was good for the animals and the chill air cleared her head. She was tired but happy. She was in love with a Dwarf. And she felt he might love her. And from here things would go on happily ever after, right? She refused to let dark thoughts ruin the time she did have with him. She had him now and that’s what mattered. Or so Gandalf would say. Gandalf. She’d nearly forgotten about him.

They flew over Bree Hill cutting just short of Staddle and made their way back downhill on the northern slope. They slowed to a trot and then dismounted to walk them awhile along the northwest perimeter of the trench before heading back towards the west gate. She asked him about his life in the Blue Mountains, his family, his culture. He told her stories: funny stories and magical stories and stories about how the Dwarves first came to be in Middle-earth. They had come even before the Elves he said, created by Aule from mineral and stone and he awakened them and they arose from deep within the earth. But the audacity of Aule to create life angered Illuvatar and he commanded Aule to destroy them. Aule’s people grew afraid and this inspired sympathy for them. Illuvatar allowed them to live but put them into a deep sleep only to be reawakened after the Elves had come.

“Durin I was one of these first Dwarves and his line continues down to even Thorin, Fili and Kili. This is just one of the many causes of strife between the Dwarves and the Elves. They feel superior to us and have taken advantage of our people, our hard work, and our generosity countless times. The Dwarves are a very great race, Angelica, and we have been unfairly accused of greed and pettiness by the Elves. To be sure, you could say that of any race.

“The Dwarves wish only to create, not to dominate; or be dominated, for that matter! All they want is to be left in peace in their workshops creating beautiful things simply for the joy of making them and bringing these marvelous things into the world. But it’s not only for the beauty of the material, it’s the imagination, also; understanding how things work, how things fit together. Many of our people are engineers and architects, alchemists, inventors, artists. They do not seek power as Men do nor do they live in a twilight dream beyond the cares of mortals as the Elves do. They work and love and live and create and they love their creations, too, almost as children because as Mahal has made them from the earth and given them life, they also create from the earth and give their creations as much life as they possibly can. This explains the exquisite beauty of the arts of the Dwarves. They radiate a life energy that is utterly unique. A Dwarf can easily pass a day crafting one single ring for a mail coat. One ring! He puts a day of his life into it. Or cutting a diamond? By the Valar! I’ve seen Dwarves study a stone for years before making a single cut! Can you understand? Rocks are living things to us! WE are created of mineral and stone and we live and breathe! The Elves worship the stars, their heads are always up there in the clouds, they build their homes in trees and towers to get as close to the sky as they can. We Dwarves worship the Earth and all that comes from it, solid, real, present,deep.

“You probably noticed the glint in Thorin’s eye when he saw the Palantir for the first time. That was admiration. The Palantir is safer with him or any other Dwarf that lives than any Man or Elf. He may wish to be near it, and perhaps even to guiltily covet it as would many, to understand it, learn something from it, but he knows it is not his, he knows it is a living thing that needs care just as a child would, and he would give his life to protect it and have it safely returned to you. And a Dwarf, if he came to trust you and admire you, would GIVE you his mountain of gold AND the shirt off his back if he knew that it would be appreciated and needed. He would just trot off and dig up more gold, have it around for a while, and give that away, too. But the gold-sickness, that is something else entirely. We even have a name for it, ‘the dragon sickness’ we call it. It has been linked to the Keepers of the Seven Rings, all of which are gone now, I believe. Thorin’s father kept one as Durin’s heir, which eventually drove him mad as it did Thorin’s grandfather. The rings enhance one’s natural tendencies and magnify them to terrible proportions. So a Dwarf-lord who rules a mountain kingdom, their livelihood and economy based on mining and processing minerals, well you can easily see how that could turn out badly.

“The earth is sacred to us, Angelica. The Elves say that we hide in our mountains and care nothing for the troubles of others but they are wrong. They intentionally misunderstand us and cannot comprehend us. I’ve seen Dwarf artists wander for weeks in a daze, deep in thought in their workshops- they can’t bear to leave them and their work! They contemplate the solutions to a problem, tinkering with wires and gears, inventing marvelous gadgets and machines and yes, toys! And they’ve even discovered how to give these things animation, movement of their own! The Dwarves imbue their creations with an energy and a life of their own through their own touch. Do you know how metal warms when handled for a bit? That is the life that pours into the metal from the hand of a Dwarf artist. Metal and stone are as alive as any tree or horse. And the Dwarves are the keepers and caregivers of that life within the earth. THAT is the heart and mind and soul of a Dwarf.”

She was in awe of him. She understood him, his words unraveling and clarifying her own thoughts and deepest wishes for her life. She knew what it was like to be thoroughly engaged with her drawing and painting, or working with a mound of clay. She would go for long walks along the lake, pocketing a little pebble or shell here and there, digging in the ruins of Annuminas, sometimes even wandering as far as Fornost, searching for pieces of rusted metal or broken bits of pottery that she would craft into trinkets, wind chimes for the branches of the Entwives, or funny little creatures for her garden. Much of the time, however, she simply displayed her “collection” on the mantel as found or hoarded them in her trunk, bits of junk to most but full of significance and interest and magic for her. Everything had to be touched, transformed by her hand, and the interaction with these things gave her meaning, the experience understanding. It was proof to her that she still existed, that she was alive, that she had been there, and that she did have an impact on the world around her, making it more beautiful or interesting or magical or playful or poetic. She thought of her little cabin in the woods, her orchard with the beautiful Entwives, her tall carved totems of fantastical animals, her little clay hedgehogs peeking out from under her rose bushes, figurines that she had dug the clay for herself and baked in a kiln that she had built behind her house. And she imagined Bofur there now, in his workshop that they would build together, making his puppets and little silver twirling birds and wondrous flying things and… and… and…

She flung herself into Bofur’s arms nearly knocking him to the ground. “You are just like me! You ARE me!”

He was enchanted. “Aye, lass. And you are me. I knew it the second I saw you drawing that ridiculous face on the back of ‘ole Master Gatehouse’s head. The expression on your face, your eyebrows knotted in concentration, your little pink tongue stickin’ out… I was lost from that moment on. The other stuff, well, that’s just the icing on the cake, as they say. We've known each other forever, I think. I just didn't know where or when or if I would ever find you again.”

He put his arm around her waist and side-by-side between Aragorn and Rusty they walked on, back towards the West-gate and the Inn of the Prancing Pony.

 

_________________________________

 

It was almost dark by the time they returned, the sun setting early as November approached. They tucked in the animals, giving them a good brushing after removing their saddles and blankets. The stableboy, a young hobbit, filled their feedbags and Bofur generously tipped him to make sure they had the best care for the night.

It was approaching half-past six when they finally made it back to the inn. They were ravenous. When they entered they were grateful to see Bofur’s companions just sitting down to supper and eagerly joined the group, sidling themselves in at the end of the table next to Balin and across from Gloin, the newest additions to the company she had met on the street that morning. Thorin was at his usual place at the head of the table looking unusually cheerful until he realized that Angelica and Bofur had arrived together. Then he frowned.

Supper was a festive affair, ale flowing continually and generously. They were served a deliciously satisfying mushroom pie, steaming pickled cabbage, the ubiquitous boiled and seasoned potatoes, and in the very center of the table a massive platter of sausages bulging in their casings. They were parked in front of Dwalin so he grabbed a handful and began “serving” them around the table, tossing them expertly to his dining companions. He chucked one at her and she caught it gracefully, sniffed it, and flung it back. He caught it with a shrug and popped it into his own mouth.

Throughout dinner Angelica chatted pleasantly with Balin who she found to be quite interesting and charming. There was a statesman-like quality to him, grounded and wise, and she discovered he had a rather avuncular attachment to Thorin. He and Thorin had passed a good deal of the day cloistered in Thorin’s room with the Palantir and her drawings, studying them, discussing her conversation with Thorin from the night before, weighing their options.

“He’s quite fond of you, you know, though he would never admit it openly. He sees himself linked to you by fate in some profound way that he doesn’t quite yet understand. I think in his heart he believes himself to be undeserving of personal happiness, that to take a wife and have a family would be to betray his destiny in a way, a betrayal of his responsibility to his people. He has an heir, nay two heirs, in Fili and Kili, so he feels he has satisfied his duty in that respect. But he has reached his middle years and has fallen into a crisis, I believe. He wishes to accomplish some great deed, right the wrongs done to his fathers and regain his rightful place as the lord of his great ancestral halls in Erebor while he still has the strength and the will to do it. He will not forsake this quest of his and he is quite willing to sacrifice himself in assurance of his success. And what he saw in your Palantir today, well… “

“What did he see?” she asked anxiously.

“He will want to speak to you of this himself later this evening, I am certain. And of other things. I should not tell you this, but I believe he plans to invite you to return with him to the Blue Mountains tomorrow.” “Tomorrow!” she thought. He took her hands and squeezed them gently. “You give him hope and strength, lass. He is drawn to you and encouraged by you, and he feels that, with you at his side to guide and help him, he can accomplish any task laid before him. Including taking back the Lonely Mountain. But perhaps there is another way. If you have feelings for him as well, then maybe you could persuade him to give up this madness of his and help him to reinvigorate the life he has already made for himself and his people in the West. He is a prince, and you yourself are a princess of the People of the West. Perhaps you above all others could make his halls in the Blue Mountains a proper, aye, even kingly, home for him. It is not truly my place to speak to you of these things, but time is short and you must be prepared for what is to come.”

Though Balin had been speaking softly, she knew Bofur was eavesdropping on their conversation, not a difficult thing to do given their close proximity. Bofur had grown very quiet and was jiggling his knee again as was his habit. She put her hand on his leg as she’d done before and he brushed it roughly away, saying in a loud cheery voice, “Lads! Let’s have a bit of music, shall we? The supper entertainment has grown a mite dull for my taste!” He arose quickly without looking at her and withdrew his clarinet from his pocket. He moistened his lips with the last bit of ale drained from his cup and put the clarinet to his mouth. He executed a little test scale run and then with a toss of his head motioned towards the corner of the hall where the little impromptu band had set up the night before. With calls for more ale, they all rose eagerly, instruments magically appearing in their hands. The group made for the far corner where large pieces of furniture were now being cleared to make way for them.

Angelica was left seated alone with Balin. Thorin had remained seated as well at the far end of the table. He had been discreetly watching them throughout supper, observant of their body language, very likely aware that they had been talking about him. Now he was watching them openly, his hands on the table before him, anxiously twisting the large silver ring he wore on his right middle finger. Balin briefly made eye contact with him and nodded, then turned to look back at her. He gave her a little wink, patted her hand, and excused himself, making his way slowly over to the rest of the group who were tuning up their instruments.

Thorin took one last swig of his ale and slowly rose from his seat, walking over to her holding out his hand with a smile. She took it and he helped her up.

“May we speak for a moment?” he said. “Alone?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“No, please, Angelica. I am Thorin to you, not ‘my lord’.”

“Of course. Thorin.”

He offered her his arm and escorted her to a doorway leading to some private salons off the main hall. She took once last glance over her shoulder, an attempt to catch Bofur’s eye. He ignored her and seemed to be thoroughly engaged in merrymaking with the other dwarves, laughing and joking, a bit vulgar, drinking heavily. They all cheered, slammed down their mugs simultaneously, and launched into a lively jig. She turned away and walked through the door arm in arm with Thorin Oakenshield.

____________________________

 

Thorin had reserved a small cozy room where they could talk privately. She noticed an object on a little side table next to the hearth, covered in embroidered velvet. The Palantir. He sat her down near to it in a large upholstered chair and then stood back from her, one arm across his chest, the other elbow resting on it, hand to his chin, rubbing his beard. He looked at her, considered her, and started to pace, occasionally stopping to look at her as if to say something, changing his mind, pacing again.

She said not a word, just watched him. She was beginning to grow impatient and shifted her position in the chair, settling in a bit to wait him out. Her movement caught his attention and finally broke the spell, shaking him out of his contemplation. He came over to her and pulled up an ottoman, sitting a bit lower than she at her feet. His knees were spread and he had his elbows on them, hunched a bit, looking up at her in her chair. Finally he spoke.

“My life thus far has been one of frustrated dreams, plans gone awry, disappointment, bitterness, and barely contained rage. No one has been spared my temper at one time or another, not even Balin who loves me like a son. I was born into a life of ease and comfort, of joy and hope for the future, not just for my people but for myself as well. My life was spread out before me like a grand carpet of exquisite design, its jewel-colored threads woven with unequaled skill. And it was all taken away in a single day that opened as bright and clear and lovely as anyone could hope for. Helplessly looking on as people, my people, fell from the sky in burning flames, everything burning, the ground melting beneath our very feet… Forgive me, I have already spoken to you of this last evening.”

Her heart went out to him and she leaned down to take his hand in hers. “No, please go on.”

“Since that day, my life has been as an empty shell. After our exile from the Lonely Mountain we worked our way south and then westward, searching for a place to land. Driven by desperation and madness my grandfather made a foolhardy attempt to retake Khazad-dum, the even more ancient halls of my people in the Misty Mountains. The attempt failed for in the end, though we were victorious in battle against the orcs who had been plundering those halls for many years, we had a devastating loss of life amongst our own and we were faced with yet another dark terror, the Bane of Durin, that still haunts those halls. My grandfather in his folly was destroyed there; and later, in an attempt to retake Erebor, my father disappeared, taken from his camp in the night by orcs while on an early scouting mission. That was many years ago. Balin was with him then. Perhaps someday he will tell you the story himself. Nothing but grief and loss and failure has been my lot for 170 years. 170 years…

“Can you understand, Angelica? I thought I could live a simple life, grateful for what we had gained in Ered Luin, never expecting more, never dreaming, never aspiring. I have learned that disappointment, despair, and death are the result of expectations, dreams, and aspirations. But lately, in these past months, I have discovered that to do nothing is sometimes a far greater risk than doing something. When that point is reached, action is the only remedy. And you have validated this for me, Angelica, with your words and actions last night.” He reached out to her and cupped her chin in his hand.

“And something else: I held the Palantir today. I gazed into it and saw a face, the face of a wizard, and he was holding out a key to me. And I saw the Lonely Mountain and a great hand came out of the West, out of a moonlit sky, and pointed to it. And I saw more faces I couldn’t read, one a small rosy-cheeked face wielding a blue dagger, fierce and bold. Angelica, this is my doom, I know now for certain. There are no longer any doubts in my mind. I shall have the wisdom of a wizard to advise me, thirteen loyal companions to aid me, and a fourteenth perhaps for good luck! But who is this fourteenth, Angelica? Is it you? Are you my lucky star, the rosy-cheeked face with the blue dagger? I feel it to be so in my heart, and I wish it to be! With you by my side I feel anything could be possible! I would be King!” He looked at her passionately, holding her hands to his lips.

“My dear Thorin! It is not I you have seen in the Palantir! It is another, for I have seen that face, too. It is not my fate to go on this quest with you. My doom lies elsewhere and it has only just been truly spread out before me in the clear unvarnished light of day. My own treasures and home that I once thought lost were never really lost at all, I merely lost sight of them. But they have been cracked open, yes cracked open before my very eyes and they shine as ever they once did, no they shine more brightly now for a thing once lost that has been regained is more precious than ever! And you, Thorin, you will regain the home and treasure that you seek, if only for a moment in this life. But you will know what you have accomplished and will finally be at peace for it. I understand that now and can accept it. Our fateful meeting here has profoundly changed both our lives forever and who need ask for more than that? You see me as a manifestation of hope, your “lucky star”, one who has validated your dearest wish. But you will have no room in your life for a princess in the days to come.”

“No! You’re wrong! I have learned to manage loneliness these many years out of necessity, yes, forever placing the welfare of my people first, but it has not been a choice made without great sacrifice and grief. And now suddenly you have come to me like a gift from Yavanna herself, fair and noble, bearing messages that have rekindled my deepest hopes and dreams for my life. You have become my salvation, Angelica. You have spirit and imagination, innocence and wisdom; you enchant me utterly! Return with me to the Blue Mountains and become my lady. You need not go on this quest to the East with me. Once we have won back the Mountain I will come back for you and you will join me as my Queen of Erebor!”

He was leaning into her now, clasping her hands tightly, his piercing blue eyes intent and determined. He was going to make this very difficult for her; his ardor was powerfully seductive and she could feel herself being pulled helplessly towards him. He detected her will to resist him weakening and he took full advantage of it. Without losing eye contact he laid her hands in her lap and gripped the arms of her chair, lowering himself onto one knee and wedging his large frame between her legs, his face now very close. He took a deep breath, exhaled, took another. “You and I,” he said, “could rule over one of the greatest kingdoms in Middle-earth. East and West. Together.” He moved one of his hands to the back of her chair for support and carefully slid the other underneath her hair to the back of her bare neck, massaging it, working his fingers into her hair. His hand was warm and strong and, combined with the intensity of his gaze, she found herself tingling, falling, dangerously close to letting him have her completely. He leaned in even further and kissed her neck, whispering with his deep, sonorous voice into her ear, “Come with me now to my bedchamber and stay with me through the night. Let me make you my lady, my lover, my queen…” He kissed her again, burying his face in her hair, his hot breath on her neck, gradually moving his hand down and tracing his fingers across her collarbone to the valley between her breasts. She was breathing heavily, wanting him, willing to do anything he asked… almost. She had to stop this now before she made a terrible mistake, one that she could never undo. With tremendous effort she took his face in her hands and gently pulled herself away, turning to gaze directly into those impassioned blue eyes.

“Thorin… please…Thorin… stop for a moment! Let me speak! How can I possibly go East with you to become your queen? What of the Entwives, dear Thorin? What will happen to them? And my people in the West? And my garden? Did you even know that I have a garden? Or that I make wine and pottery and little animals out of clay? I have a life and duties here in the West, things that I cannot easily abandon.”

He continued looking at her intently, listening but determined to convince her and have his way. “But you need not abandon them. There are others, are there not? You have kin that could look after the Entwives, or we could bring them East. And any other duties you may have could be managed in Erebor. Your people no longer have a kingdom here in the West befitting a Dunedain princess. Come with me and take your rightful place by my side as my queen! Last evening you spoke to me of your solitude and it pulled at my heart… You need no longer be alone, desolate, exiled. And I need you! I need you, Angelica…”

“But do you love me, Thorin? If I asked you, would you love me enough to stay, to stay in the West and give up this quest, to come and live with me in my little treehouse near Lake Nenuial? Would you? Could you? Because for me, that is the real question. You are about to embark on a seemingly impossible journey to reclaim your homeland, one for which you are willing to fight all the demons of Hell; yet you ask me to forsake my own homeland, my life, and my people to become your queen in a land I have never known. My life and my home are as vital to me as Erebor is to you. Therefore, I ask you again: could you live a quiet and contented life with me in the woods, just the two of us, spending your days picking apples, weeding the garden, happily trading your axe and sword for a ploughshare? Could you stand to have Aragorn, tall, cocky Aragorn, come to visit us every other weekend or so, him and his elves on their great white horses, drinking our wine, sleeping on our floor, eating our food, throwing pits into the fireplace? Aragorn would be as your brother-in-law! How would you like that? Because that is precisely what a life with me as your ‘queen’ would be like, even if I were to come to Erebor; Entwives, weresquirrels, and Aragorn in tow. I would become as Queen Beruthiel and her cats causing all kinds of mischief. Your people would toss me onto the next barge heading for Dorwinion. Unless you were to do so first.”

By the time she had finished, Thorin was defeated. Hanging his head he regained the arms of her chair for support as he slowly pulled himself back from her, rubbed his face with his hands, and resumed his place on the ottoman. He sat there a moment in silence, nodding and looking at his hands. When he next looked up at her he had an expression of mild shame on this face but his eyes were smiling, his crooked grin soon breaking into a deep, self-deprecating chuckle. She had broken through him and had reached the other side. Intact.

“Very well, my dear Angelica. You have broken me and exposed me and proved me to be a self-serving scoundrel! I do adore you, however, perhaps even more so now that I know your mind and your heart. A simple life is truly a noble life. I only wish that circumstances and times were other than what they are. That maybe if I were a different creature than the one I’ve become, one that could come to live with you in your little house in the woods and be utterly content there, I would deserve you. You remind me very much of myself, the way I used to be, a faded memory now, over a century ago. I used to spend hours walking in the woods of Dale. I still do so in the forests of Ered Luin when I have the chance. But the world and the years have changed me. I did not have the responsibilities then that I have now.” He became thoughtful, a calm settling over him. “No, it’s not such a bad life, really, and we could make it better in time, in another hundred years, perhaps…

“If… If I were ever to change my mind and turn away from this quest, would you then come to the Blue Mountains? Would you be my lady and walk in the woods of Ered Luin with me? It is not so very far from Emyn Uial. We could even build new halls further north, nearer to your homeland. Would you perhaps consider my proposal, consider me, then?”

She smiled gently and held his face between her hands. “You would regret that choice forever, dear Thorin, and in time you would grow to despise me, I fear. And somehow I think Gandalf would understand this and counsel you to carry on with your plans to go East. This will be an important quest for him as well and I have the sense that the fate of Middle Earth rests on this one decision, your decision, made here in Bree this very day. This is your time, Thorin, and everything is in place, waiting for you to move ahead. I thought a bit differently last night, but now I see things more clearly. For my part, what I have seen in the Palantir has already happened and there are no longer choices to be made. The events have merely to unfold. But I tell you now, and you must always remember, that you are worth loving, Thorin Oakenshield! And you will always live in my heart. If fate were kinder, and it weren’t for another, perhaps I would go with you to the Blue Mountains and be your lady and fight to keep you safely there with me, even if it meant being despised by you eventually. But even if we made the attempt, drawn to you as I am, and I found myself in your bedchamber this evening awaiting you, many hearts would be broken, and mine not the least of them.”

He nodded and sighed with resignation. “And who is this ‘other’? Can you tell me his name?”

“It is Bofur.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise for a moment, then nodded with understanding. “Ah. Bofur.” Then he said lightly, “The Prince has been bested by his friend the Toymaker. How fitting it is! Such has been my lot in this life.” He allowed himself a cynical laugh and rubbed his forehead. “But he is a good fellow, even more deserving of you than I believed myself to be. And I think he will make you happy. Yes, I can see that. And I can live with that.”

“But you must promise me, Thorin, that you will look after him for me, make sure that he comes back to me. He can handle a weapon but he is no warrior, not battle-tested as you are. He loves you and is loyal to you and will follow you, his captain, to the ends of the earth as will the other eleven. I have already spoken to him of this quest and he believes it to be a bit of a lark. He truly has no idea what awaits him far in the East, far from his own home. This quest is theirs, too, Thorin, but their destinies are different than yours. Bofur and the others must follow theirs as well, and their dooms also lie with Erebor.”

He stood slowly, hands on his knees for support. “Very well. Great deeds await us all, it seems.”

“Wait a moment. There is one more thing.” She rose from the chair, taking the wrapped Palantir in her hands. She offered it to him. “Please take this. It may help you on your journey and I can’t bear to have it near me, tempting me, always wondering how you fare, powerless to aid you. I can aid you now and that is what I intend to do.”

He took it with hesitation, a look of awe and doubt in his eyes. “Angelica, I dare not take it! This is an heirloom of your people, not mine even to use! Your trust in allowing me to keep it even for a few hours today has been more than generous. And what if it is lost to you forever? What would Aragorn say? The road before me will be a hard and dangerous one and the responsibility you entrust to me fills me with dread.”

“The road before you is precisely the reason I feel certain that my decision is the right one. A treasure kept, unused, hoarded away out of fear and timidity is no treasure. It is a burden. And you will keep it safe and protect it from harm. I have no doubt. Gandalf and the hobbit will return it safely to me when you no longer need it. In any case, it is already believed to be lost; in addition to you and your companions only Gandalf and a handful of my kin even know that I have it. None of the Elves know. And concerning Aragorn, I have more right to the seeing-stone than he. This is not his business. Nor will it be.”

“Angelica, I have underestimated you even in my admiration for you. You can’t possibly know what this means to me! Your faith gives me hope and I will do everything in my power to see it is returned safely to you. I shall do it myself if I can! You have already spoken to me of Gandalf the Wizard and though we have never met it has become clear that I must seek him out, or he will me, perhaps. But what of the hobbit?”

“I believe he is the face wielding the blue knife that you, and I, saw in the Palantir. I don’t understand it but I think Gandalf will. It will all become clear soon enough.”

He nodded, and taking up her hand held it to his lips. “Your devoted servant I shall always be,” he said with deep feeling, his face warm, a faint redness rising. In response she placed her free hand to his bearded chin and kissed him on the cheek. “For luck?” he said. “And hope,” she replied.

He tucked the Palantir, still wrapped, under his arm and sighed. “Well, I suppose we should join the others. They’re probably beginning to wonder where we’ve gone off to for so long. I’m also in want of a bit of ale, I think; or something stronger perhaps. Shall we?”

He proffered her his arm and she took it. They walked to the door and when he opened it for her they were met with the sight of Bofur passing, teetering down the corridor. A startled look crossed Bofur’s face when he saw them together, still arm in arm. He looked first at Angelica, then at Thorin, then back at Angelica, wheels spinning. Catching a mild look of guilt and embarrassment on Angelica’s face as she pulled her arm away from Thorin’s, Bofur’s expression instantly turned to one of jealous rage. He approached Thorin, grabbed his collar roughly and shoved him up against the doorframe spoiling for a fight.

“YOU!!! What’ve you said to her?!! You think you can do whatever you want? TAKE whatever you want? She is NOT yours!!!” he spitted venomously. He was quite drunk and stank heavily of barley whiskey and pipeweed. Thorin took his hand away calmly and firmly held him back by the shoulder.

“She is yours, my friend. I will admit that I tried; yes, I tried! But she will not have me. Her heart belongs to you and you alone. I did not know; so peace, brother. There is no need for any of this. You will do well to deserve her.” At this he grasped Bofur by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. Bofur stood stunned and looked at Angelica, her face flushed with shame and horror. He reached out for her and she shook her head at him, angry hot tears welling in her eyes. She thrust his arm away and ran, ran down the corridor, ran through the hall pushing her way desperately through the crowd, ran to the door of the inn flinging it violently open, and ran out into the night.

Within minutes she was at the stables and safely inside, leaning against the door, racked with sobbing. She made her way by feel, stumbling in the dark down to Aragorn’s stall and flung herself around his neck, slowly dropping onto a mound of straw, exhausted. He gave her a little “neigh” and nosed her, his bells tinkling softly in the quiet of the stable. Bofur didn’t trust her! After all that had happened, everything they had said to each other, everything that had happened between them in these few short hours since they’d first met yesterday… Good heavens, was it only yesterday? She needed to get out of Bree, away from there and back to her trees and her little garden and her birds. Yes, she would leave first thing in the morning before anyone could see her or try to stop her. She curled up at Aragorn’s feet and cried, cried for herself and her lonely life and that hateful Palantir…

Suddenly she heard a sound at the end of the stable, the sound of the door opening. She froze in mid sob, her eyes instantly dry, and she wiped her nose on her sleeve and burrowed herself as quietly as she could in the straw. Then she saw a lamp being lit and heard a voice calling out in the dark, “Angelica? Angelica are you in here, lassie?” It was the voice of Dwalin. He entered and shined the lamp around, checking each stall one by one. Her nose was still running and she tried to stifle her sniffling, but keen-eared Dwalin was on her scent. He reached Aragorn’s stable and held up the lamp, shining it directly at her swollen and puffy face. He knelt down to her, setting the lamp aside and reached out for her, taking her in his arms. He rocked her gently until she quieted, then he scooped her up and carried her back to the inn.

He entered the back way and climbed the stairs to her room. He opened the door and carried her to her bed, laying her gently down, still sniffling and snooping and curled up in a ball. Then he pulled up a chair and squeezed himself into it.  
“Our wee lassie seems to have had a taxing evening, by all accounts. Thorin told me what happened and sent me to find you. He suspected you’d be in the stables but daren’t come himself. Considering the circumstances.” He removed a small silver flask from his pocket and passed it to her.

“Not Bofur?” she said disappointedly, sniffing the contents of the flask. It smelled sweet and fruity and she took a sip. “Ugh! What in heaven’s name is this stuff? You drink this?” She handed the flask back to Dwalin and he took a long pull himself.

“This's my sippin’ syrup. Always good for what ails ya.” He stuck the flask back into his pocket and continued. “Our laddie Bofur is at this very moment a puddle of self-recrimination and regret. We propped him in a quiet corner out of the way until he’s functional again, which, unless I brought you back, might not happen for a VERY long time to come.”

“Good. Leave him there.”

“Aye, serve him right I daresay. But he’s kinda necessary and no one particularly wants to carry him all the way back to Ered Luin. Bombur might, out of fraternal duty, but he’s got quite enough of his own bulk to haul about.”

“But why?”

“Why what, lass?”

”Why would Bofur do such a thing? Behave that way? He doesn’t trust me! And he was so vulgar about it, drunk, attacking Thorin like that. And they made me feel, BOTH of them! like a bit of property to be handed over after signing a business contract! ‘Oh, she’s all yours now, Bofur! I won’t try to take her! You won her fair and square, brother’! Disgusting it was. As if I were a prize!”

“You are a prize, lassie. But not in the way you might think. Try to understand. Dwarf men can be very possessive of their ladies, and why? There are so few of them that they are fought for. And Dwarf women, knowing their, shall we say, value, can be a touch manipulative at times. It’s rather a charming trait, I must say.” He chuckled. “And when the ‘prize’ has been won she is more valued than ever. There is a saying in our culture, ‘When in love one must always keep hold the handle of the axe.’ And Dwarf women always hold the ‘handle of the axe’, so to speak.” He smirked again at the double meaning of this bit of folk wisdom. “You are from another culture and perhaps things are different among your people. Bofur’s display tonight was as natural and normal to him, and Thorin, too, as your reaction was to you. And our laddie Bofur, well… Bofur can be a bit naïve when it comes to women. And you, lass, are apparently a bit naïve when it comes to men! Kissing Thorin there in the stable last night, and yes, I DO know about that, and then finding you in Bofur’s room this morning, well, you can imagine.

“Thorin’s status as our chieftan and would-be king complicates matters even further. He has never married and for good reason. He has devoted himself entirely to the welfare of our people. And an unsettled life, one of uncertainty and struggle, has been a constant preoccupation with him. He feels that he cannot settle himself until his people are settled. When he encountered you and heard your talk about the Lonely Mountain he began to think that maybe you were destined for him, that he had finally found someone to share his dream and the remainder of his life. You are an exiled royal like himself. Bofur understood this and had resolved to bury his own desires and wishes, to step aside and let Thorin have you, if that’s what you wanted as well. He feels inferior to Thorin and by some accounts he his. In our culture, as in many I suppose, a prince chooses his mate first and all others stand aside. It may sound strange to you but this is how things stand.”

She was sitting up now, listening to him carefully. “I think I understand. But what do I do now?”

“The matter between Thorin and Bofur will work itself out over time. Aye, indeed I would guess that it already has been, that all has been forgotten. And by Thorin’s account he and you have reached an understanding. He honors and admires you. He will respect your wishes and has vowed to regard you with a deep and loyal affection and friendship. All you need concern yourself with is Bofur. Suffering a little can be good for the spirit and you are treating him to a well-deserved bit of that. As I said before, a prize that has been fought for is all the more precious when it is finally won. I dunno, maybe he’s your prize? Frightening thought that… Well, wipe your nose, wash your face, and tart yourself up. Bofur’s probably still waiting for you in his puddle of self-pity and we have some merrymaking to attend to!”

With that he wrestled himself awkwardly out of the dainty chair he had wedged himself into, tweaked her nose affectionately, and left.

She peeled herself off the bed and padded to the dresser mirror to have a look at herself: red puffy eyes, red-tipped nose, straw in her hair. With a sigh she began picking out the pieces of straw and then remembered Bofur’s comb. She felt around and found it tucked into her vest pocket. She pulled it out, running her thumb tenderly up and down the teeth. Then she pressed the large pearl at the top and the little silver bird popped out. She smiled. Then she remembered her purchase that morning, still wrapped, sitting on a chair. She picked it up and unwrapped it. It was lovely, a delicately crocheted, deep red lace embroidered with silver and gold threads, a traditional craft of the ladies of Bree, with a low scooped neck. The neckline and cuffs were trimmed with tufts of soft brown fur. Bofur will love this, she thought, holding it up to herself in the mirror. The decision was made.

She washed, dressed, combed out the straw from her hair, and, making a face, was obliged to wear her clunky riding boots for she had no slippers. She stood for a moment gazing at herself in the mirror. From the ankle up she looked quite nice, she thought. It was the feet part that was the problem. Well, Hobbits go barefoot. So can I. She took off the boots, checked her toes (they were quite clean and no longer pruney from soaking all afternoon in the bath), pinched her cheeks, and headed out the door.

She skipped down the stairs and through the short passage leading to the common room. Lively dance music was competing with singing, clapping, and raucous laughter, the floor quaking from stomping feet. When she peeked into the hall she was met with the marvelous sight of at least a dozen couples spinning and twirling around the dance floor inside a ring of cheering bystanders. The moment she entered she was grabbed by Fili’s strong arm and whisked off into an energetic polka, quite suddenly forgetting her gloom.

As they danced she caught sight of the other dwarves in Thorin’s company. Kili was dancing with one of the barmaids he had been flirting with earlier, Dwalin with one of his little hobbit ladies from the night before. The others all seemed to be playing instruments with wild abandon, even Thorin, the Great Thorin Oakenshield, mighty prince and warrior, was seated straddling a bench with a small traveling harp, a massive mug of ale before him, pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth. He held the harp diagonally across his lap, picking and slapping at it with ferocity, strings popping, wood creaking. She had never seen anything like it before. She was mesmerized and felt an uncomfortable tug of affection for him. He was passionate, unrestrained, feral, alive. She did not want to see him die. How could he die? She could belong to him, yes, for a time, and she would suffer terribly for it. Maybe she could save his life. But she could never save him. And he could never really belong to her. He would never belong to anyone but himself. And that, she thought, is the way it should be with him. He has known of his destiny his entire life, not just in these past few days. He has prepared, and waited, and dreamed of this. And she was going to let him go.

“But there is one who can have me and love me and will give himself to me completely,” she said to herself. “No, he already has given himself to me completely. And he is sitting alone in a corner, heartbroken and miserable, and it’s my fault.”

Fili still had her in his arms and he spun her out, crashing her directly into Dwalin who caught her in a massive bear hug.

“Oy, Fili lad! Watch what you’re doin’ there!” He picked her up like a sack of potatoes and tossed her back to Fili who was making waving motions with his hands, laughing gleefully. He caught her easily and flung her over his shoulder. She glared back at Dwalin who was slapping his knees with delight. Fili was about to set her down when she whispered something into his ear. His face broke out into a wide grin and he took off with her, making for the corner where Bofur was sulking.

He was still staring moodily down at the floor when they approached. “Package for Mister Bofur!” said Fili. “Here ya go!” And dumped her squarely into Bofur’s lap. He gave a little “at your service” bow and then skipped off merrily, grabbing hold of another damsel on his way back to the dance floor.

And suddenly there she was, fluffed and sweaty and breathless, wrapped and beribboned in a lacy red dress, arrived special delivery just for him.

“Well?” she said perkily. He didn’t respond. He just looked at her. “Well? Aren’t you going to say something?”

He just kept looking at her with those eyes, those unbearably sad eyes. Finally he looked away.

“Oh. Oh, I see.” She slowly scooted herself off of Bofur’s lap with a bit of difficulty and rose. She stood there for a moment looking down at him but he still refused to meet her gaze again. He was looking at her bare feet instead. She wiggled her toes once and turned to walk away from him. Suddenly he reached out his hand and grabbed her by the ankle, stopping her in her tracks.

“You have pretty toes,” he whispered, his voice raspy and dry.

“Thank you.”

His hand slid slowly up her calf, landing at the tender part at the back of her left knee. He reached out with his other hand, placed it around her right knee, and pulled gently so that she collapsed lightly once again onto his lap facing him. His warm and shaking hands were now pinned between her calves and her thighs and he didn’t try to move them away. Nor did she. The furry cuffs of his boots were soft against her legs.

“I’m so sorry… I…” he said, shaking his head, still avoiding her eyes, voice cracking. “I just…I don’t know how I’m supposed to be.”

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor like a marionette whose strings had been clipped. Her hands had landed on his knees for support when she had fallen onto him and she now moved them to his shoulders, clasping them around the back of his neck. He raised his eyes to meet hers. They were large and moist, reflecting the light of a dozen lamps burning around them.

“I’m a buffoon. A peasant. Thorin was right when he said that I would do well to deserve you. I’ve behaved like an absolute ass and you deserve so much better, better than a skulking, drunken, boorish lout spoilin’ for a fight. All of Balin’s talk at the table… and then when you left with Thorin… I was sure I’d lost you forever. I could hardly believe it when he said you’d refused him for me. I should’ve had faith in you! And sometimes…well, maybe you’ve noticed that sometimes I say and do really stupid things without thinking first. I can’t seem to stop myself. I just open my mouth and…”

She shushed him with her finger to his lips, then silenced him completely with a decisive kiss. He looked up at her with bowed eyebrows, biting his lips together tightly and obediently. “Bofur. Would you like to know what Thorin said to me?” He nodded, mouth still clamped shut. “He said that you, Bofur, were more deserving of me than he was. That he could see that you would make me happy. Now what do you say?” He was now chewing on his bottom lip, uncertain whether or not to speak. “You can talk now,” she said.

“More than anything I want to be worthy of you, Angelica, but I’m afraid it’s beyond me! I want… I want to make you happy, to be noble and honorable for you, dignified, steadfast. I couldn’t stand to have you ashamed of me, clod that I am. I want to be all of that for you and I beg you, tell me how I can be that, if you know! Show me how to be that and I will try! I will do it!”

“No one on this good earth is truly like that, dearest Bofur. These ‘nobles’ to whom you refer, including Thorin and Aragorn, are passionate souls with faults and fears of their own. The greatest and highest Elf princes have fallen, their nations destroyed, millions of lives taken, all for ‘honor’ and an oath to reclaim a handful of jewels. And my people as well, these “honorable nobles”, hungry for power, wiped from the face of the earth in a single day. The best that any of us can do is fight for what we hold dear and follow our courses with compassion and the best of intentions. That is honor, Bofur, and you have already proven yourself honorable by that definition. And love… well love it seems to me now makes us aspire to be our greatest selves. You want to be heroic for me because you believe that I expect it of you. My dear Bofur, you already are a hero in my eyes! You were a jealous drunken lout, yes! But a loyal drunken lout, too; and I… well, I have behaved rather poorly myself and I’ve not truly earned your trust yet. We have only met yesterday, though it seems to me that we’ve already known each other a lifetime.”

His hands shifted a bit under her and he gave her thighs a little squeeze. Then he worked his way under the edge of her knitted bloomers so he was now holding her warm flesh directly. His motions gave her a little tingle and she unlocked her hands from his neck and held his head in them. She put her forehead to his.

“There’s that word again.” He said.

“What word?”

“Hero.”

“I thought you were going to say ‘lout’”

“Aye, very well, then. A loutish hero. Or heroic lout. Just for you. Take your pick.”

She gave him a smile. “You’re all I want and all I will ever want, my dear Bofur. Just as you are. You make my heart sing! Your laugh, your funny ways, your little toys, your gentleness and passion, your strength, and yes, even your jealousy maybe… You’re the most alive person I’ve ever known! And when you forget all that claptrap about ‘nobility’ and ‘rank’ and ‘birthright’ you see that I am just like you. Aule and Yavanna have made us one for the other. To find you, that I now know is why I really came to Bree. You are my doom, Master Dwarf.”

His wilted look was gone and his eyes shone. She kissed him softly at first, then again and again, with abandon, oblivious to everything and everyone around them. The hall, the people, the music disappeared from her senses. There was only she and her toymaker and she poured her soul into him. He slid his arms up through her bloomers and, taking her bottom in his hands, pulled her to him. She rose onto her knees and he buried his face in her bosom, her arms wrapped around his head, holding him tightly to her. Then he wept. He wept with relief, with joy, with utter exhaustion.

She spoke softly into his ear, “Let us go now. For if you depart in the morning to return to the Blue Mountains this may be our last night together for many, many days. We mustn’t waste a moment of it.”

Bofur withdrew his hands and then he raised to one knee and picked her up in his arms.

_______________________________

 

He carried her to her room and laid her gently on her bed. She watched him as he lit a lamp and then closed the door. He placed his hat on the dresser and proceeded to remove his jacket and boots. Then he approached the bed and sat on the edge gazing at her solemnly. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand and then tenderly pressed his lips to her forehead, the bridge of her nose, the corner of her mouth, the spot behind her ear. She started to reach for him.

“No, please; let me just look at you there a moment. This is how I want to remember you when I’m at the Lonely Mountain. That this is what I’m fighting for, to return home as your champion.” He called me his home, she thought. He eased one leg onto the bed and bent towards her. “You are so…utterly…this dress…for me…” he shook his head unable to finish the sentence. He passed his hand across the bodice of her dress, fingering the tight lacing down the front, taking in every inch of her. He was going to take his time and she would let him.

With his finger he slowly followed the low scoop of her neckline, running it back and forth along the soft edge of brown fur. He bit his lip and smiled, tucking his fingertip just underneath the hem near her cleavage and tracing it up to her shoulder, twirling a lock of her long hair around his finger and loosening a ribbon she had used to tie her hair back. He was now leaning over her with his hands resting at her shoulders, his heavy chest inches from hers, his hot breath on her making her shudder with anticipation. “You do know I intend to ravish you tonight. I hope that’s alright,” he whispered just before touching his lips to her neck, his moustache lightly brushing her as he took hold of the fabric of her dress and pulled it gingerly off her shoulders. He kissed her neck again, then her collarbone, easing the fabric down from her shoulders ever further, his lips never once leaving her pale skin. He reached her bosom, his tongue trailing over the exposed uppermost fullness of her soft breasts which were straining against the constricting neckline by her heavy breathing and with one deft tug of the lacing with his teeth he freed them.

He now wrapped one arm under her waist and drew her to himself. Her breasts were warm and flushed, her nipples small and pink, and he drew circles around them with his tongue, nibbling her, biting her, reddening her, hardening her until she was helplessly arching into him. With his free hand he slowly followed the lacing of her dress down, down, pulling it loose bit by bit, exploring with an inquisitive finger, measuring the depth to her damp skin. Inching ever downward he reached the top edge of her bloomers through the lacing and slid his fingertip underneath the waistband, just able to touch the finest hair. She let out a little gasp, involuntarily tensing her stomach muscles, and he slipped his finger down even further until he reached the very edge of her cleft. He could feel her already beginning to moisten and withdrew his trembling hand to reposition himself on the bed.

Moving her skirt aside he reached up to her now extremely sensitive waist. He grasped the ribbon that held her bloomers and with a little pull untied the knot that held. He now lifted both of her knees and placed his hands under her bottom, taking hold of the back waistline of her bloomers and slowly pulling them down to her ankles. He released one of her feet and lifted her leg, lightly touching the tip of his tongue to the inside of her thigh and flicking it up, up, up, pausing for a moment almost at the top and then skipping to her other thigh going down and back up again, back and forth he went, back and forth, ever closer to her core.

He was mercilessly teasing her into a kind of delirium and she was grasping at the bedclothes with both hands, afraid to move thereby breaking the spell that he had woven in and around her. She desperately wanted him to take her but she was determined to wait him out, let him have his way this last time. Her legs were now thrown over his heavy muscular shoulders, his hands gripping her bare waist, dragging her down the bed into him. Then with one skillful hand grasping her underneath, he lifted and opened her, his thumb wrapping around and resting just at the very rim of her wetness spreading her open, lightly running his lips around hers, testing her, tasting her, slowing working his way ever inwards through the layers of her tender swollen red flesh, excavating ever further, searching, searching until he slipped into her well… then pressing his tongue into her he slowly and thoroughly devoured her from the inside out. She was in agony, suspended, caught, and she cried out to him.

Within seconds he had hold of her thighs with both hands and was raising her up to meet him. He lodged his hips between her legs and began to ease himself into her, ever more deeply as he continued to harden and thicken, relentlessly filling her with excruciating slowness. She could feel him throbbing inside her, his strong, steady heartbeat reverberating with every breath, and she tried to raise herself to him, then reached for him, yearning to hold him, to feel his body pressed against hers. He crawled up to her, heaving and desperate, and fell into her arms. They were on their sides facing each other, arms and legs intertwined as they became one, one body, one spirit, an entity apart from the world.

“Try not to look away from me or close your eyes this time when it happens, Angelica,” he whispered breathlessly. “It is a seal that will bind us in this life and after. Please try if you can…if you will…”

She nodded and met his eyes. They were so deep she felt she could throw herself into them headlong and would never reach the bottom. She was lying on his arm wrapped around her shoulder and clutching at his chest, pawing at his face, don’t close your eyes, don’t close your eyes… Then all at once it happened, an electric shock that passed between them, through them, simultaneously. They couldn’t look away even if all the mountains of Middle-earth came crashing down around them. It was endless, waves and waves of energy engulfing them for an eternity. And all of a sudden it was over. And then they laughed. They laughed and laughed, helplessly, uncontrollably laughing, a laughter of surprise and release and utter joy, the joy of discovery, of surrender, of simplicity, the joy of being alive and together and free.

Neither of them could speak. They just laid there holding each other and smiling at each other for a very long time, unwilling and unable to separate.

“Maybe we should get undressed,” Angelica finally said.

Bofur laughed again and rolled her on top of him, bouncing her a little. “Aye, perhaps we might. It has become a wee bit warm in here.”

“I may need your help getting this thing off. The laces are still a bit tight.”

“Come, lass. We’ll have you out of that in a jiffy.”

He propped himself up on his elbows and sat up, sitting cross-legged on the bed with her tucked in-between facing him, legs draped over his own. She raised her arms and he helped her to lift her dress over her head and it was tossed onto a chair. His own shirt was already mostly unbuttoned and it was thrown on top of her dress. He was still wearing his breeches as well, the leather ties already having been undone at the front, and he peeled them off gratefully. All that was left was his long underwear. It was of course missing all its buttons and was draped on him loosely, the front stretched out and hanging open entirely from top to bottom. She took one look at him and shook her head with mock pity.

“Master Dwarf, you seem to have a problem with your undergarments.”

“They’re all I have,” he grunted with an unconcerned chuckle. He stretched back, one arm under his head and the other beckoning her to join him.

She sidled up next to him, his free arm holding her close, her head on his shoulder. His chest was covered with masses of curly dark hair and she ran her fingers through it, thoughtfully tracing the swirls of hair that spread from his collarbone down past his stomach. She rubbed his belly and he sighed softly, his eyes closed, a look of quiet contentment on his face.

“Ah, lassie, that feels so very nice. Can you bring that paw back up here? I have a bit of an itch and my hands are out of commission at the moment.”

She moved her hand back up to his chest and gave his tattoo and scars a good scratching with her short nails.

“Aye, just the spot.”

She kissed his chest then laid her head back upon his shoulder, her hand on his breast over his heart. She could feel it thumping contentedly deep inside.

“It is true then. Angelica does dispel ghosts.” He whispered almost to himself.

“What is that, darling?”

He removed his arm from under his head and thoughtfully fingered her long waves, brushing them back from her face. “When I was a wee lad my grandmother had a garden planted on the side of a hill. She didn’t like depending on the Menfolk and Elves for all of our food as many of my people do, trading labor and the crafts of our hands for it. She grew vegetables and herbs, and some flowers, too. She used to say that the Angelica flower banishes ghosts away forever. I never believed it ‘til now.”

“Do you have ghosts, Bofur?”

“Nay, no longer my Angelica.” He placed his hand over hers and held it gently to him.

They were quiet for a moment and then she spoke.

“Angelica is not my true name, Bofur. I mean, it is my name, the name I go by, a common enough name among the Shire-folk and even with the Men here of Bree who oftentimes will name their daughters after flowers. But I have another name among my people, a name in the Sindarin tongue given to me at birth. Very few people know it, and even my kin rarely use it. But I will tell it to you now. It is Angoliel. It means “daughter of magic.”

“Angoliel.“ he repeated. “Angoliel. Men lananubukhs menu, Angoliel,” he whispered softly.

“And I you, Bofur.” She felt him stir. “I have the second-sight, remember?”

And with that he held her tight and made her his little spoon. She fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, wrapped in Bofur’s arms, “Angoliel” on his lips.

__________________________

 

The next morning they were startled awake with the sound of a heavy fist banging on the door.

“Bofur!” Bang bang bang! “Are you in there?” Bang bang bang. “Bofur!”

“Aye! Just a moment!” Bofur rolled his eyes at Angelica, untangled himself from her and climbed off the bed. He yawned and stretched, then padded barefoot to the door scratching the back of his head with his hand.

He opened the door a crack and there stood Kili fidgeting, eyes wide, bounding a little trying to get a peek over Bofur’s shoulder. Bofur blocked the door with his frame and held him back.

“Aye, Kili, keep it down! What’s the fuss?”

“Breakfast is downstairs in ten minutes. Thorin wants us all there for a briefing before we head out. She’s invited, too, if she wants to come.” Kili was still trying to dodge Bofur’s bulk and get a look into the room.

“Right. Okay. Be right down.” And he slammed the door in Kili’s eager face.

He turned and looked at her still lying on the bed, an expression of regret and resignation on his face. He approached the bed and sat. There were no words to say what they felt.

“I don’t have to go,” he said. How could he possibly leave her like this? “I could come with you, come up north with you and stay. After all, none of this will happen tomorrow, will it?”

“No, not tomorrow, but very soon I think. And you must settle things with Thorin and your business in the Blue Mountains before you can leave for the East. You will be coming through the Shire again on the East Road in a few short months and I will meet you there in Bywater at the Green Dragon to see you off on your journey. Gandalf will send word to me. He will know.”

“Aye.”

He brushed her cheek and rose from the bed. She watched him dress and then helped him braid his hair back out of his face. There was a lump in her throat, her mouth dry, her heart and arms aching to keep him there. He turned and stood before her. “You’ll not be comin’ down, then,” he said.

“No. I’ll be down later.”

He nodded, taking her in his arms and giving her a final kiss before picking up his hat and walking out the door, closing it behind him, not daring to look back.

She crawled back into bed and lay there on her back staring at the ceiling. She closed her eyes with her forearm draped over them and relived the events of the past two days, ending with their lovemaking the previous night and the binding spell they had woven together. She smiled as hot tears welled up in her eyes. Aye, lassie, you’re in for it now! She dried her eyes on the pillowcase then got up to face the day and the inevitable heartache that it would bring.

She freshened herself at the drysink then dressed again in her old worn breeches, tunic, and jacket. She shook out her dress and was about to fold it into her pack when she changed her mind, rewrapped it in its paper, and laid it aside. If the opportunity arose she would sneak it into one of Bofur’s saddlebags as a little reminder of her and their last night together. He wouldn’t discover it until he was miles away, perhaps not until tonight when he unpacked his bedroll and then he could hold it as he slept or tuck it under his head as a pillow. The thought made her tingle and she smiled to herself. Ange, you’ve become a maudlin, sentimental fool! He’ll probably just think it stinks and throw it over a bush to air out. But she knew he wouldn’t. Not her Bofur.

She gathered up her other belongings and tidied up the room, leaving a little gem on the dresser for the chambermaid. Then shouldering her bags she walked to the door, giving the room one final mournful glance before she made her way back again into the world of mortals.

Downstairs she was greeted by a hobbit maid carrying a freshly brewed pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. “Mornin’, miss! I was just about to bring these up to you! A gentledwarf requested it and I am obliged, indeed. ‘e also asked me to pass you this,” and the maid handed her a scrap of paper. It was a note from Bofur.

“My Angelica,” it read, “There were some changes made to our travel plans this morning and we will be heading out earlier than expected. I’m off to make some final preparations but meet me in front after you have had your breakfast. I have a little surprise that I hope won’t distress you too terribly. In fact, it may come as a bit of a shock, so prepare yourself. Things can get no worse than when I left you early this morning so I hope you’ll forgive me when I share with you this news. Ever your Bofur.”

Bofur’s knack for understatement was equaled only by his ability to overstate the obvious. So what could this mean? The furrow between her brows deepened as she read and reread his note. “A bit of a shock?” “Distress you too terribly?” “I hope you’ll forgive me?” “Prepare yourself?” What was he up to? What had happened in the two short hours since he’d left her in her room?

With a frown she tucked the note into her pocket and gratefully accepted the tray from the petite woman, sitting down with it near a window facing the street. The window was mostly of cut and leaded stained glass but there were several untinted though hazy panes she could squint through. She wanted to be on the lookout for Bofur. She wolfed down a biscuit, then a second, not having realized how famished she truly was. Feeding herself had been the last thing on her mind these past two days. Anxiety made her forget about food; annoyance made her hungry. And right now she was very annoyed.

She finished her tea and took one more look out the window. Ponies were being lined up in front of the inn, the stableboys leading them one-by-one from their stalls, saddled, reined, and readied for their packs. Then she noticed Aragorn, saddled and reined himself, feedbag still hanging from his head, being led by a smallish figure she could barely make out through the bubbly glass. Somebody was trying to steal Aragorn! She got up and rushed toward the door of the inn, flung it open angrily, and sped out.

“That’s my horse! What are you doing with my horse!” She grabbed Aragorn’s reins yanking them away from the hand that held them. The gesture was made so suddenly and with such violence that it resulted in Kili’s sudden appearance from the far side of Aragorn, tripping over a box of dry goods and rolling into the dirt at her feet. She was mortified. She helped him up and tried to dust him off.

“Oh, dear! I am so sorry! I had no idea it was you! I saw Aragorn and thought…”

“Not to worry. I might have done the same if I were you, some stranger trying to make off with my horse!” He gave her a cheery smile, shaking out his coat.

“By the way, what are you doing with my horse? I mean, why are you bringing him out?”

“Bofur told me to.”

“Why?”

“Ask him yourself.” He nodded down the street to a figure loping along, her saddlebags slung over his shoulder and stuffed to popping. Kili bent over and slapped his knees, dust flying, picked up one of the boxes, and carried it off to an area where the other dwarves were busily distributing the foodstuffs and goods for the journey among their various bags.

She met Bofur halfway. “What is going on? Why did you ask Kili to bring out Aragorn?”

Bofur gave her a huge grin and continued walking. “Because, my lovely silly near-sighted lass, Aragorn is comin’ with us. And so are you.”

“What are you talking about? I can’t come to the Blue Mountains with you! Not yet, anyway. Winter’s coming and there are the Entwives to manage and the dovecote will need to be cleaned… and then of course there are the.weresquirrels and... and what about my garden... and I can’t just leave…” She was trotting alongside him, talking fast, trying to be reasonable, trying to be responsible…

Bofur stopped, dropped the saddlebags to the ground, grabbed her by the shoulders, and turned her to face him. “Angelica! Stop. Just shut up for a minute and LISTEN. You were plannin’ to leave today as well, weren’t you?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“And you were plannin’ to take the Great Road west out of Bree?”

“Yes, I…”

And then it dawned on her. Her eyes shot open wide. She could ride with them! She flung herself onto him and he spun her around and around dizzily, laughing, they could have another two, maybe three days together at least!

“Not only that, but we’ve decided to make a slight detour and escort you safely home to Lake Evendim. We would have to swing north at some point anyway to avoid Emyn Beraid and the Gulf of Lune so we’ll simply do that a bit sooner. Besides, the lads will appreciate a warm hearth and a bit of your dandelion wine to break up the trip back to the mountains. The Twilight Hills are about halfway for us. From there it’s only another 200 miles or so.”

“Wait… you’re all coming to my house? All nine of you will be in my house? Nine loud, smelly, crazy, drunken dwarves in my tiny little messy tree house?! That’s marvelous!!! And YOU!!!!!” She was so happy she danced him around in the middle of the street, passersby ducking out of her way to avoid getting thwacked by the woman suddenly gone mad.

“Giddyup! We’ve got some travelin’ to do!” He picked up the saddlebags and threw them over his shoulder, then bent partway over with his hands on his knees and wiggled his fanny. She leapt onto his back and he took off with her down the street.

Thorin was there to meet them when they approached and cocked one eyebrow in mild disapproval. She was still clinging to Bofur’s back as he dropped the saddlebags to the ground at Thorin’s feet. Still she clung when Bofur squatted down to sort through the contents looking for something, and yet still when he rose again to hand a coil of rope to Thorin. Thorin considered them for a moment, shook his head in disgust, snorted, and walked away. Angelica giggled and burrowed her face into Bofur’s neck, giving it a good chew. She had done her duty for the well being of the various inhabitants of Middle-earth and now she was free to do as she chose. She didn’t need to be dignified or regal or mysterious or solemn. She didn’t need angst or grief or fear anymore. She could simply be happy and be herself. And most of all, she didn’t need to be alone. She was completely and utterly in love with Bofur the Dwarf, Toymaker Mattock-Wielder Pony-Rider and she didn’t care who knew it. Including Thorin Oakenshield, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Chieftan of the Dunedain, and all the fine and lofty Elves in Rivendell and Lothlorien and across the Sea combined. All things considered, she thought to herself, it had been a very good three days in Bree.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far I hope you'll leave me a note. I love notes.


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